Depraved and Devious
by Estoma
Summary: Seneca Crane hires two victors for a night of debauchery. For AprilLittle; a late birthday gift, and cover image by AprilLittle.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: For April on May Day, because I didn't get to your birthday. Contains references to anal/oral sex. **

Outside the tribute tower, the party continues into the early hours of the morning. It began with dinner and a dance, all the guests in their finest, drinking flutes of champagne. Then the champagne turned to brightly colored liquors with exotic names, but at this hour of the morning, the revelers are fueled by their party drugs alone. They're writhing like snakes in a barrel, colors just as vibrant and poisonous.

This year, toxic green is the theme for the Hunger Games. Toxic green to match the marsh that swallowed children and burnt their skin away until only white bones could be seen. Some of the partygoers have tried to replicate this, painting the bones on their fleshy arms and legs. One woman wears a g-string to show off the pelvis bones that she painted on.

The revelers have likely forgotten the occasion they are celebrating. The young man standing at the window of the tower isn't sure either. Superficially though, he knows. There are enough reminders scattered around. As if his face and his naked chest on the banners that hang from adjacent buildings aren't enough, there's the dragons too. One soars past the window, nearly close enough to touch. Its leathery wings span ten meters, and the scales on its back and belly are gold and emerald and jade. Greens to match the marsh, and brown leathery wings to suit the mountains it flew over in the arena.

The young man reaches towards his hip, but there's no weapon hanging at his belt, and none needed. The dragon is just a hologram; he killed the real one in the arena two weeks ago and has the scars to prove it. Those golden talons, they weren't as soft as gold when they raked his shoulder but the feeling was worth it, when his makeshift spear caught the thing in the belly. There were only maces in the cornucopia his year, but with a knife from a sponsor, and the saplings on the mountain slopes he made a spear. It didn't feel as good in his hands as the delicately balanced weapons he learnt with, but it was more than anyone else had.

She is at least sixty years old, the sponsor, her husband the manager of the five largest quarries in District 2. She always takes her pick of the District 2 victors. She'd been his first date, two days after they pulled him from the arena, took away his weapons and forced him into slacks and a shirt he was never allowed to button up past his stomach.

"That's enough, Fallon." The older man's voice is gruff, and it's like a knife scraping over a whetstone.

"Sorry, Dirk," Fallon says automatically. He turns away from the view below to look at his uncle who is more like his father. Dirk was a strong man in his prime, winner of the 43rd Hunger Games. His father was the winner of the first.

"I didn't get you out of the party just so you could watch it. You need sleep, you'll be up all tomorrow night." The older man reaches for a slim remote, and the image on the window darkens and materializes as something much more familiar. It's just dawn there, and the mountains reach for a sky that's a myriad of pinks, delicate oranges and deep reds. The snow that covers the peaks like a shawl is dyed a vivid shade, a little of the pink, and a good dose of orange. But mostly red.

"Tomorrow night?" Fallon asks.

Dirk looks down at his hands, and his mouth is a tight frown. There's a snowy white envelope there, and the scent it's drenched in gets up his nose and sticks in his throat. It makes him sick. Dirk hasn't liked the smell of roses since he was eighteen years old and naive, before he won. He's glad the envelopes don't come for him anymore, now he's too old. He wishes Fallon would be spared the dates, but at six foot four with ten years of hard training, it isn't possible. "You've got a date, with the head gamemaker, Crane."

Fallon turns slowly back to the window. With his eyes, he follows one of narrow switchbacks cut into the mountain's side. It ends in a quarry, a darker pit on the mountain's face. He can just make out a truck crawling slowly upwards, and he knows it's filled with workers with their picks on their shoulders. He wishes he could wake at dawn and shoulder his tools, rather than wake to the high pitched voices of his prep team. Fallon soon learned that there was no point getting dressed of a morning; they would choose his clothes and dress him, but first they liked to oil his chest.

"Did you hear me?" Dirk asks.

"Sorry." Fallon hesitates, and his voice is very soft. "The head gamemaker, that's a man, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Do I..." he starts to ask, but it's no use. He knows he has to. There hasn't been a choice since he was eight years old and shipped off to the career academy in Marble. Fallon tries to see how far the truck has made it up the switchback, but this time his vision is blurred by bitter tears.

Dirk takes a half step forwards but he restrains himself. He wants to put his arms around his nephew. Fallon's been more like a son to him, from the moment he was delivered to the career academy in District 2's capital. He was an awkward child, too tall for his age, and he said he wanted to be a tribute when he was old enough. Dirk corrected him quickly; a victor, not just a tribute. Now he can see the way his nephew slumps, how he's barely standing upright and he'd like to help him. But he knows the last thing Fallon wants right now is to be touched. And it's never a good idea to startle a victor.

"Come and sit down," Dirk says. Fallon does as he is told; he always does as he is told. Dirk's glad, because he knows it might save his life, and his family's. But he drags his feet along the soft carpet and he looks nothing like the proud young man who stood on stage in front of the nation six days ago to receive a crown. He's closer to the muddied boy they pulled from the arena, with blood crusting his shoulder, but even then, he'd walked with shoulders back, unaided to the hovercraft's waiting ladder.

Fallon sits on the opposite end of the couch from his uncle, and he leans his head forward onto his hands. Dirk looks down at his own hands, and the envelope there. It shakes slightly; his hands aren't steady anymore. The shaking began somewhere after Fallon called out to volunteer, just as he was told to. By the time Dirk watched his nephew sprint off his platform, he could barely hold a glass of water. The shaking has lessened now, but not stopped.

Dirk opens his mouth to speak, but he can't make the words come out. They taste foul in his mouth, they taste like pity and revulsion and anger. Making the movement obvious, he slides down the couch until he can put one calloused hand on Fallon's shoulder, the one without the dragon scars. The Capitol could have got rid of them, but they didn't.

Instead Dirk says, "Seneca Crane is an important man, but you'll do us proud."

Fallon says nothing in response. He made his district proud with the maces from the cornucopia, and with his strong arms around a child's neck. He made them proud when the whole nation heard the frail bones break. There's nothing to be proud of, having some old man's cock up his arse.

"Can I go now?" Fallon asks quietly.

"One more thing," Dirk says, and his voice is thick. "You'll be with one of the other victors too."

"A...a woman?"

Dirk shakes his head slowly and can't bring himself to look at his nephew. Fallon puts his hands over his face to hide the bitter tears. He isn't crying because he's a killer; he was trained for that. He's imagining the carpet under his knees, and the way he'll have to make sure not to gag when he's sucking someone's cock tomorrow night. And it makes him want to gag now.

"I'm sorry, Fallon," Dirk says, and he really is. He wishes he was young enough to make a deal and take his nephew's place. He never tried to shield Fallon from violence; he taught him how to break a person's neck, but this is different. There's no pride that can be taken in it, and Dirk knows this. The last words are even fouler in his mouth. They're like acid. "You'll be with Finnick Odair."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: This one-shot is T rated for the Caesar's Palace forum challenge. You should check out the forum! The next one-shots will not be rated T. **

_The bamboo towers ten, twelve, fourteen feet tall. The stalks grow close to each other; they nearly touch, and some do. Under the canopy, everything has a greenish glow, and you can't see further than the next clump of bamboo. Each small clearing is like an island. _

_ An aerial view of the arena shows how true this is. The bamboo stretches for miles, and the small breaks that indicate a pool or a stream are rare. The exception to the uniformity is at the cornucopia. Seen from above, there is a large, clear circle around it. Though, this year, it's tinted an unhealthy green by the reflection of so many vibrant green stalks. Each tribute plate is a small circle too. There's a few feet of clear space around them, and a clear corridor leading right to the cornucopia. It gives the tributes a clear sight ahead, but their competitors are screened from them completely. _

_ A young boy is watching alone. The screen in front of him takes up an entire wall. Floor to ceiling, door to curtained window. He rests his feet in the plush carpet, an inch long, and digs his toes into it in anticipation, because the countdown is about to begin. _

_ He doesn't mind being alone. He never has. This time his mother is at a launch party; he didn't see her leaving, but from his room he heard her laughter. She was drunk already; he could tell from the way her steps weaved down the hall. He hasn't seen his father for two weeks now; he's been living in the control room, or flying out over the arena to add last minutes touches. The boy's father is the head gamemaker. He wishes that he could be in the control room with his father now, and his palms tingle when he thinks of all the gamemakers with their hands poised above their dials. _

_ In his room, hidden at the back of his cupboard in the pocket of one of his winter coats, the ermine one, is a notebook. It's filled with sketches of mountains and rivers and fantastic beasts with wings and tails and horns. There are diagrams with exact measurements; how high the cliff is, how jagged the rocks below are. He's even got one drawing that takes up the entire page; it's a creature with wings, and scales and a snout with teeth that protrude each side. The wings are twenty feet across, and the teeth six inches, all labeled in the boy's neat hand. _

_ One day, he wants to see his mountains, and his rivers on the screen. The nation will watch the tributes scramble up the steep sides of a range he created. They'll gasp in mock horror when the river he designed is fought over. And best of all, they'll scream, really scream, when a tribute faces off against the mutts he bred. He can't wait to see his dragon swoop down and catch a child in its golden talons. _

* * *

Now screens make up three of the four walls. The fourth wall is entirely a window, but the glass is darkened to keep out the bright city lights. Seneca Crane reclines in his bed, big enough for five. Three red, silken pillows support his back and they match his dressing gown.

"Play on," he tells the screen. Even watching the games now, a week after they've finished, there's still a certain thrill. In the tributes of course, but also in his terrain and the challenges it throws up. It's his arena, but Crane knows he wouldn't survive in it.

As he watches the countdown again, Crane can't help but tense. He remembers seeing it for the first time in the control room, before he knew if any of the plates would blow up early, or a tribute would step off and end it. There are so many things that can go wrong. Crane remembers being told about one of the first years; a tribute stepped off their plate too early, and their mangled leg landed close enough to the next plate to set off the mines there. Most of the tributes were killed in seconds.

But his games go smoothly, of course. It's hard not to watch the boy from District 2, now that Crane knows the ending. Fallon's fighting is precise and methodical, just as he was trained, and he's too skilled for there even to be any close shaves that would still make Crane gasp. He wonders if the boy fucks in the same methodical way.

"Go to my favourite part," he says, and the screen darkens for a moment. When the image returns, the horn is gone, and so are the rest of the tributes. Only one is on screen, Fallon again. He's not doing anything interesting, just sitting with his back against a rock, face turned into the afternoon sun. Still, Crane tenses and wraps the silken sheets around his fists.

The camera angle is just behind the boy, so they can see what he does. At first there's nothing to hear, but Fallon turns his head and the camera pans until everyone can see him frown as he gets to his feet and reaches for one of the spears he's made. Crane likes the look of his hand around the shaft.

When the dragon mutt appears, soaring on leathery wings around the shoulder of the mountain, the afternoon sun catches off its golden scales, just as Crane planned so many years ago. Fallon instinctively moves to put the rocks at his back so the thing can't come over and behind him, and he grips a spear in one hand and a mace in another. And Crane leans back on his silken pillows and drinks it in.

* * *

_It's the boy's birthday. He celebrates it in the room with the screen, because nobody wants to miss a moment of the games. The guests are friends of his parents, and they fawn over him because they know exactly who his father is. He spends most of the party on the same couch, eyes still fixed on the screen. _

_ This year there are no weapons. Not even a knife. The sponsors aren't allowed to send any either. Some of the tributes work out that the bamboo canes can become weapons when they're snapped off to a ragged point. But some of the tributes do just as well without weapons. _

_ Gifts are lavished on the boy, and he takes his eyes away from the screen briefly to decide they aren't what he wants. But his father gives him the best present; he takes the boy to the control room with him. _

_ Everything there is gleaming silver. The screens wrap around the walls until there is no wall, only the bright moving images. All the green from the bamboo on the screen casts an eerie reflection on the bright metal. And the boy's eyes are as wide as saucers as he tries to take it all in. _

_ There are aerial views, shots of single tributes, one of the golden horn, one of a stream that flows right at the feet of the bamboo. It's two weeks into the games, but there are still fourteen of them left. In the bamboo forest, it's hard for tributes to find each other. In each of their shots, they're alone. _

_ The boy's father leaves him in the doorway, moves off to bark a command. The boy wanders inside and winds his way between the raised workstations until he stands in the exact center of the room. He turns around and around on the spot, and he feels like he's in the arena. Then he stops; that's not what he wants. He wants to be in control. _

_ There's a sudden flurry of activity when two tributes collide. The larger tribute pushes through the canes to get to the stream, and he chances on another tribute, splashing up the course of the water. The boy holds his breath and for a moment it looks like the smaller tribute will get away. Then they go down together, and a dozen canes creak and snap. _

_ Small tags on the screen label them from their districts. D2 and D9. The boy from District 2 could have been picked out without his label though; he's nearly twice the size of his counterpart. Well fed. _

_ The gamemakers manipulate their panels skillfully, and all the screens now show the pair of tributes. But there hasn't been a kill yet. The boy gets sick of holding his breath, so he watches with a frown. On screen, the tributes are talking, their voices magnified so it sounds like they're standing right next to him. _

_ "Go on, talk," District 2 says. He holds the smaller tribute by the shoulders, and he gives him a shake. _

_ "Don't…don't know anything," District 9 says. He's turning his head this way and that. _

_ "I don't care, just say something." _

_ "Wh…what?" _

_ "Just bloody well talk, alright!" _

_ The boy's attention is dragged back to the gamemakers when he hears how they whisper. He's surprised to see his father next to him. _

_ "Do you know what the problem is, son?" he asks. _

_ "They're not killing each other?"_

_ "District 2's unhinged."_

_ "Are you going to kill him?" the boy asked, head on the side. _

_ "Not unless we have to," his father replied. "That's Tahl Lockyer, his brother Dirk won a few years back. The family just breeds victors. Good, obedient victors. He's just been alone too long. We'll see what happens." _

_ The boy looks back to the screen. The little tribute's shaking now. When he pisses himself, the wetness spreads rapidly down his legs, but he doesn't even blush. _

_ "Did you….fuck," District 2 snarls. He hurls District 9 away from him. The canes they broke when they wrestled pierce the child's back so it's like he's on a bed of nails, half a foot off the ground. District 2 finishes the job, stamping his foot down, hard, on District 9's ribs. There's an audible crunch, and one of the broken canes is pushed clear through the child's chest. The tip is stained a dark red. _

_ District 2 doesn't leave when the cannon fires. It takes half an hour before he reluctantly turns away and splashes up the stream, the same way the other tribute had come. He keeps looking back until the hovercraft descends. _

* * *

When Crane watches Fallon volunteer for the games, he wonders if the boy will thrive like his uncle and grandfather, or lose himself as his father did. He hopes for the former; he thinks it's an embarrassment when the gamemakers are forced to kill a tribute deliberately. And worse, much worse, when they have to kill a victor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Thank you very much to the lovely writer who agreed to beta for me. Hopefully you notice a difference. Contains slight explicit language and sexual content. **

Plush cushions, all upholstered in hues of bright green, fill the little alcove. The curtains that screen it off from all the others like it are a matching color. They're heavy, and don't even flutter when the avoxes walk by outside, fetching and carrying dishes so the air is redolent with the smell of salt, and spices and cream. The aroma of the food does not completely mask the smell of sweat, perfume and aftershave.

In front of the low daybed are the remnants of a meal. Two bowls of spiced broth, each containing at least ten different types of seafood: mussels in their shells, medallions of lobster, tiny white fish, fried to crispness. One bowl is nearly finished, the other only half. The fat congeals on top.

He is always careful not to eat too much on dates, not when he's likely to have two or three a day. For some reason, they always order seafood with Finnick. He's probably sampled more of the stuff than anyone, certainly much more than the fishermen back home who haul in their nets but rarely get a taste. Especially not of the silky, golden lobsters, or the abalone that they dive for and pry off the rocks with short, thick blades.

On the seat beside him, the woman reminds him of one of the abalone he used to dive for when he was young. Before he learnt what it was like to kill. Her lips and hands cling so tight to his body; she's left marks all over him. She wears green to match the curtains, and this amuses Finnick. Though, it should be him dressing to match the room; he's the one who has been paid for.

Her breasts threaten to spill out the top of her dress. This close, he can see the stretch marks on them, and the sheen of sweat. They overfill his hands, and he can feel the plastic in them. It reminds him of the floats they use back home, to mark where nets rest. While she's busy sucking his neck, he lets his face drop. His cheeks ache from smiling too much. Sexy smiles, bashful, seductive, teasing, gentle, and none are real. His hips are sore too, and even the skin on his cock feels tender.

He wonders if the woman can taste the powder layered over his neck. His prep team had to hide the bruises he got during his breakfast date. And later, they'll have to hide the bruises he gets now. Tonight is important, but Finnick tries not to think of it, because if he does, he'll never sustain an arousal.

He supposes he's lucky at the moment; normally it could be four dates a day, but it's down to three. Finnick's glad the victor this year is a young man, ready to be sold. It makes him flush with guilt, but at the same time, he cherishes the extra sleep. He's selfishly glad Fallon has a family he wants to protect. He's not much to look at, but his height and his strength make him desirable enough. The victor last year was a girl, hair like straw and no breasts at all. Even the implants her prep team gave her didn't do much for her figure. He didn't get much of a break that year.

There are plenty of interviews from Fallon's family. Most are given by his uncle, and Finnick's amazed how Dirk can turn out so charming on screen when off it he always looks spitting mad.

* * *

Finnick remembers the tribute parade four weeks ago. The stylist decided to make the costumes exclusively out of seaweed. On the chariot, his tributes had itched and tried to pull the flimsy costumes closer to their bodies. However much Nerissa tugged at her costume, the curve of her arse was still visible. Barra wasn't much better.

"Standard's gone down this year, 4." One of the six mentors from District 2 strode over, and he ran his eyes over the tributes in their skimpy seaweed.

"You can talk," Finnick shot back. He made it obvious when he looked ahead to the District 2 chariot. The tributes there looked nearly as bad as his own. The girl looked tiny next to her partner, in a grey dress shot with veins of blue and red; like marble. The pair of them didn't match, and it made the whole thing a little worse. At least matching, they'd share the same humiliation. The male tribute wore much less than his counterpart; leather sandals to his calves, leather skirt riding low on his hips. A spear, entirely in gold like the chariot rested in his hand and he toyed with it. His other hand rested on the girl's shoulder. "Your girl looks tiny. Is she just there to remind your nephew to wave and smile? How long did it teach him to say 'I volunteer'?"

"They gave you two tridents in the arena didn't they?" Dirk snarled. "You shoved the other one up your arse."

Finnick knew there was a rule forbidding tributes to fight before the games, but he wasn't sure about mentors. He wouldn't put it past Dirk, but then the cool female voice announces it is nearly time for the parade to begin. Dirk stalked back to his tributes for a last minute word. Finnick did the same. When he looked back over his shoulder, he saw two pairs of brown eyes, narrowed in hate. The look suited the uncle, but not the nephew. When Fallon turned away and offered his hand to his partner to step into the chariot, Finnick wrote him off.

There were a few interviews staged in the imposing Justice Building back in District 2. Finnick remembered it from his victory tour. So many brown eyes narrowed when he got on stage, so many thick jaws set. He could feel the anger resonating from the crowd like waves and he didn't exactly know why at the time. He only killed one of the tributes from District 2.

One of the interviews was an older woman who shared Fallon's brown eyes. Her hair was shot with grey, and she had the same jaw as her son. It's unfortunate for her. She was a quiet woman, but her confidence in her son was admirable.

The other was a young woman who rested her hands on her swollen belly through the whole interview. She was asked about her pregnancy, and she said she's not sure what will happen first; the birth of her child, or her brother winning. She said the latter as if it was as certain as the former.

* * *

The woman's busy, and she makes little grunts of pleasure. But Finnick finds no attraction in her fat little tongue or the way her hands slide down his chest and stomach, dragging at his skin. The smacking noise her lips make on his wet skin is the worst though. When her hands fumble over the button of his slacks, Finnick manages to turn his smothered sigh into a groan.

"Oh, you like that do you?" the woman purrs. She takes her lips away from his neck and licks the saliva there. She licks her way up to his ear and all Finnick can think about is having a shower. Her breath smells of fish.

"Sure I do," he murmurs back.

"I always know what you like," she says. And Finnick pulls down her dress and shoves one of her nipples into his mouth so he doesn't have to think of another reply.

Later, he's back in one of those little alcoves, and it could be the same one with the meals cleared away. The smell of lavender and lily is thick and cloying on the air; the flowers have been placed there to cover up the salty smell that doesn't arise from food. He doesn't eat anything this time; the woman has only paid for an hour.

This time at least, she hasn't dressed for the room. Her dress isn't tight either; it's loose and opaque. Puddled on the floor at the foot of the daybed, it looks like a jellyfish left on the sand as the tide recedes. She takes it off so quickly and stands with her hands on her hips and chest thrust out. Finnick pretends to admire her, but all he's thinking is that her hair isn't chestnut and tangled and stiff with salt.

She doesn't waste time, this woman. As the manager of the escort program, being punctual is just part of her. She even pulled back the curtain of the alcove dead on the hour. Now she's on her back on the daybed. Her hair doesn't splay out behind her like Annie's would; it's a wig, placed carefully on the table. Finnick's on his knees in front of her, her legs resting on his shoulders. It's automatic for him now; he puts his index finger inside her, and circles her clit with the other hand. She even comes right on time.

He checks the clock. Only thirty minutes left, and then he gets the whole afternoon off; a rare luxury. Until tonight. Finnick does his best to push the thought out of his mind. It's hard though. He's imagining Seneca Crane's red velvet bedroom so clearly; he's been there a few times before. He pictures the gamemaker reclining against half a dozen pillows, ankles crossed, and the man's soft voice telling him to start.

When he's with a client, Finnick never thinks of tangled chestnut hair and lean swimmer's legs. But he has to right now, because otherwise all he can think of is tonight, and the way Fallon's going to bring his hand up to his split lip and look at the blood on his fingers and ask why. So he conjures up Annie's face, her wide set eyes, and the way she brushes her hair back with one hand so it falls down her cheek like a wave. But her face keeps changing. The eyes go brown, the jaw thick, with dark stubble. He keeps seeing Fallon's eyes widen in shock and confusion when Crane says he wants to see blood and bruises.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Thanks to my beta. Wonderful working with you.**

Dirk hits the button in the elevator with more force than is needed and clenches his hand in a fist because he hates how it shakes. It's not a long ride up from the plaza. While the games are on, he spends most of his time there mingling with the sponsors. This year, he spent so much time there or in the mentoring station that he barely slept. The other mentors, all five of them, understood. Enobaria took to bringing him cups of strong, black coffee so he could stay awake longer and powerlessly watch his nephew fight for his life.

When Fallon's district partner was killed so early, Dirk hid a fierce grin from the other mentors. They inherently understood that, instead of watching Fallon's anguished face on the screen as his partner's canon fired, Dirk was focused on his nephew's rising odds.

It's a short ride to the second floor of the tribute tower, and it's so quiet. Dirk can't help but add up in his head; Fallon killed a quarter of the kids who were housed in the tower this year. Dirk doesn't include the kids his nephew hunted with the other careers, circling around behind them to cut off retreat when it wasn't his turn for a kill. He doesn't count the boy whose leg Fallon shattered with his mace, so he couldn't run from the District 1 girl and her flaying blade.

He scowls the whole way up. The answer he found on the plaza is not the one he wants. Dirk wants to go home. He wants to take his nephew home and make the three day long drive, up twisting switchbacks, to the village where what remains of their family live. But it's not going to happen soon. Maybe a month, they say.

A lot of tributes aren't used right away, Dirk knows. They get a few months, lulled into a sense of false security. Finnick Odair got two years, because he was so young. Wiress has never been called on, and Dirk wonders if that's because she'd forget what she was doing halfway through undressing a man. But Fallon's old enough already, and he came out of the arena able to walk and function and please. Fallon only had two days before the first envelope came.

* * *

_The finale is something Dirk knows he will never forget until he dies. He couldn't sit, and he couldn't bear to have anyone speak to him. When Brutus nudged his shoulder, maybe in sympathy, Dirk nearly broke his nose. The other man understood though; he backed away apologetically and Enobaria ran for an icepack. The gamemakers forced Fallon out of the mountains where he'd been for the last ten days. Fallon knew what was happening; it only took one small earthquake to get him moving downhill, looking anxiously back over his shoulder for falling rocks. The screen in the mentoring room was split into two at the time, so Dirk could see the other tribute, Barra, making his way through the marsh towards the foot of the mountains._

_Dirk paced, like a caged animal, and he lashed out when Enobaria said something about his blood pressure. It didn't matter. He knew he'd done everything he could for Fallon, and he just had to trust his nephew's training. But god it was hard. When the two boys saw each other and started to run, Dirk bit down so hard on his knuckles that his jaw ached and he nearly drew blood._

_It was like a physical pain when Barra's mace caught Fallon in the back and he fell. Dirk ceased his pacing and he held a lungful of air while his nephew struggled to get back up. His lungs were burning, and he had to breathe when Barra launched himself at Fallon. They wrestled, the ground turning to mud under them and Barra went for Fallon's eyes. It was all Dirk could do to keep looking. When Fallon twisted and threw the other boy, straddled him, Dirk's exclamation was feral joy._

_He didn't blink, and his eyes burnt as Fallon's hands locked around Barra's throat. The mud made it hard to get a good hold, and the boy fought desperately, struggling to free his hands. He got one out from under Fallon's knee and raked his fingers across his face. But then his movements became less focused, and more frantic. Fallon held on while blood ran freely down his face and mixed with all the mud and dirt. He held on until the canon, just as he was taught._

_Dirk stumbled back against the wall then. He started to laugh, and couldn't stop himself as Fallon wiped his hand across his face and stood up. He even remembered to keep his shoulders back and smile as the trumpets sounded, and commentators announced the fourth victor for the family. Fallon walked to the ladder and when the current froze him in place, he was left with a wide smile on his face. That was before he knew what it was to be a victor._

* * *

Dirk can't help but think Fallon's exit from the arena is the perfect opposite of his father, Tahl. Fallon looks like a victor should. But Tahl came out of his arena, after nearly a month of games, and went right into a straight jacket. When the ladder dropped from the hovercraft, he wouldn't get on it. So they cut the footage there, while someone hit him with a tranquilizer and the claw from the hovercraft descended down into the bamboo and picked him up the same way it did for dead bodies.

It's quiet on their floor too. The other victors must be sleeping, else they're out on their own dates. Fallon's victory has made them all popular again, even Brutus who's just a few years younger than Dirk. Everyone wants a piece of District 2; marble and granite prices have gone up as they come back into fashion. Old as he is, with hands that shake, Dirk would probably have been called for dates too, if not for the favor he'd done Snow eighteen years ago. Some days he thinks he'd rather the dates.

He calls out and receives no reply. He knows he's foolish when his heart starts to beat faster, but he still quickens his steps down the hallway. It's just that it's so quiet, and there are knives in the kitchen and while Fallon was trained to use a knife on someone else, it wouldn't be too hard to turn it on himself. He wouldn't be the first victor, or even the first in his family.

Dirk starts down the hallway. The plush carpet muffles his footsteps and shifts when he takes a step. The wooden doors are all highly polished, all the same dark grain, and Dirk doesn't hesitate to shove open the last one on the end.

Now his heart falters, then resumes its frantic pace because Fallon's sprawled on the bed, and he doesn't wake. The silk sheets are tangled around his legs, and he's spread eagled, face down. Dirk feels sick. That was just how Tahl was laying when Dirk found him after he fell from the cliffs behind the victor's village. The way Tahl had fallen, you couldn't even see the blood; it wasn't until they turned his body over that they saw his chest was shattered and his face was a mess.

Dirk doesn't even feel his hands tremble when he strides forward and shakes Fallon's shoulder. In a moment, he recoils and his lip is split and he can taste blood in his mouth. He's never been more glad of the taste.

"I'm sorry," Fallon mutters, breathing heavily.

"That's what I taught you to do," Dirk says, wiping blood off his chin. His heart's still racing, and his voice sounds a little bit unsteady. It's easy for his fear and his relief to turn to anger. "What are you doing still in bed?"

"I was tired, the prep team didn't wake me up," Fallon says. "I'm sorry."

"You could be up training," Dirk snaps. "Biceps, abs and pecs, remember? If you don't stay in shape, you're going to look a fool on all those posters."

"Sorry," Fallon says quietly. And Dirk notices the way he pulls the tangled sheets up over his bare chest and twists them around his fists. He never used to be shy when Dirk had him strip and swim in the half frozen lakes in the mountains.

"Right, well, get to it then," Dirk says, and now he hears the anger in his voice, and it forces his face into a frown. Fallon thinks it's for him because he gets up quickly, nearly tripping over the sheet. He tugs a t-shirt over his head.

"Oh, I guess I shouldn't wear a shirt, should I?" he asks, twisting the fabric between his hands. Dirk can tell that more than anything, he doesn't want to take it off.

"You can wear what you like when you're by yourself, Fallon." Dirk makes the effort to soften his voice and hopes it comes through. "Sit down a minute."

Dirk takes a seat on the bed too, and he can't help but notice how Fallon sits down with two feet of space between them. Dirk reaches out to bridge the gap but he stops with his hand hanging. He closes it into a fist and puts it back in his lap. Fallon notices, because he flushes, dark under his tan, and shifts a fraction closer. Dirk smiles sadly.

"I didn't mean to be angry, Fallon," Dirk says. It's as close to an apology as he can manage to the boy he used to hit with practice swords.

"I know, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"I was worried about you," he interrupts. And Dirk stays still, let's Fallon move closer. He holds his breath when his nephew's shoulder brushes his.

"Can I please ask you something?" Fallon's voice is a bit strained, and Dirk pretends it's not.

"What?"

"Why didn't you tell me this was going to happen?"

It's a question Dirk was expecting earlier. Carefully, like he's approaching a wounded animal, he brings his arm around Fallon's shoulders but he doesn't dare pull him closer. Right now, Dirk just wants to put his arms around his nephew and draw his head down against his chest so he feels safe. He never did it when the boy was eight years old and taken from his mother to the career academy. And he sure as hell can't do it now.

"I wanted you to try your best to come back. I didn't want to give you a moment where you'd hesitate. I thought that, if I told you, you wouldn't try as hard because you would know what you'd be coming back to."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: Thanks to my lovely beta sohypothetically. And thanks to El (Guest) for your review.I'm really glad you're enjoying it. Contains slash/oral sex. **

The red velvet curtains are drawn to block out the midmorning sun that threatens to pierce the room. Seneca slips his shoes off and enjoys the feeling of the carpet on his feet. He tugs off his socks and lets them stay where they fall. He sinks his toes into the carpet just as he did when he was a child, so many years ago when he would watch the games in the room with the screen. But this is a different place now, and he doesn't just have to watch; the games are his.

Seneca stretches his arms in front of him, then curls them behind his back. He rolls his neck. The hours of the head gamemaker are long. He checks his watch; an hour before he's due to his next meeting, to look over the arena and decide which sites should go on the tour. It'll be open to the public next week.

Seneca knows what he'll do with an hour. The screen lights up at the sound of his voice, and it shows exactly what he was watching last night. A bloodied and exhausted tribute looks over the edge of a precipice, and Seneca loves the look on his face. It's disbelief, and pain and fierce pride.

"Show me again," he says, and the screen responds immediately.

He remembers the moment he decided to order the dragon out into the arena. It'd been years in the breeding, and there had been many failed attempts until he got something that looked just like his childhood drawings.

It nearly seemed a shame to waste it like this, but Seneca knew something had to be done when he was standing in the silvery control room and he got the report back.

"Sir, the numbers are in," said one of the juniors, "60% are saying the games are moving too slowly." For a gamemaker, those words were death. Seneca knew better than most. Just that simple phrase made him start to sweat.

"Which tribute is the favourite to view at the moment?" he asked.

"District 4 male, followed by District 1 male, sir,"

"District 2?" he asked.

"He's dropped back, sir, since day 10."

Seneca remembers Day 10. He didn't leave the control room that day. Mid-morning, Fallon found the little girl from District 7. She was a good fifty metres above him on a rocky slope, pressing herself into an indent between the rocks. The camera showed a close up of her face; dirty, tear stained, utterly terrified.

She had a good lead on him, and the chase lasted until evening. For that, Crane even bothered to learn her name; Maya. For a while it looked as if her head start would serve her well, and she was lighter too, went quicker in the scramble over the rocks. But Fallon knew mountains, that much was clear. The little girl lost sight of him for a while, and she allowed herself a rest, leaning against a rusty colored rock, gasping and dry retching. That was when she saw Fallon again. He'd taken a wider route, but easier too, and now he was close. Seneca made sure there was a close up of her face when she saw him; her eyes were as big as saucers, and she nearly choked on a sob.

It was strange, he thought, that she didn't give up. It lasted another half an hour until her pace slowed and she stumbled along. For a moment Fallon seemed unsure what to do now the pursuit was over. Then he grabbed the girl's arm and sent her spiraling down the steep slope like a discarded doll. When she landed, she looked like a doll too; arms and legs bent in ways that they should not.

"Time to make him perform again then," Seneca said.

"District 2's three kilometers from the nearest tribute, sir, should it be mutts?"

Seneca knew exactly what it should be.

Now, watching again, Seneca knows he made the right choice. He loves the disbelief on Fallon's face when he sees the dragon come around the shoulder of the mountain, gilded by the afternoon sun. Seneca settles back on the velvet cushions and holds one against his chest.

The mutt roars, and Seneca's only regret is that they couldn't make it breathe fire. It took nearly two dozen failed creatures, their throats and mouths burnt and blistered, to find that out. On the screen, Fallon swears loudly and backs towards the tall, rust red rocks. When the dragon lands in the dirt a few paces away, its wings stir a wind that ruffles Fallon's hair and clothes. His eyes dart over his shoulder, and Seneca knows he's looking for an escape that isn't there. In the way Fallon's body tenses and his hands tighten on his makeshift spear, Seneca can tell that he knows if he runs, he's dead. Fallon's expression is remarkably similar to the little girl's, from District 7.

When Fallon takes a step forward, Seneca hugs the pillow tightly. The dragon stretches its neck out, quick like a snake, but Fallon fends it off, swinging the mace he got from the cornucopia.

With the sound wired into every inch of the room, Seneca can hear everything as if he's there. There's the scuff of Fallon's feet as he feints left and swings right, and the hiss the dragon makes when it's not roaring. Seneca can hear Fallon's breathing, heavy already, and the dragon's claws scrabbling on the rocks.

When Fallon ducks under the raised wings and tears the fragile membrane with the head of his spiked mace, Seneca becomes aware of the pressure in his groin. As the boy grits his teeth and drives forward, Seneca's fully aroused. He slides his hand down the waistband of his slacks and gasps as the dragon and the boy both scream when Fallon's crude spear goes into its belly, and its gilded claws rake his shoulder.

Seneca's breathing quickly as he reaches across the bed and presses a little silver button by the wall. It's only moments before the young man in a white uniform slips through the door. His feet make no sound on the carpet, and he says nothing as he bows quickly to Crane.

"Get on with it then," Crane says breathlessly.

The bed sinks down as the young man climbs on and crawls up next to Crane. He kneels down and runs his hand lightly over the front of Crane's pants where his erection's already clear.

"Get on with it," Crane snaps.

The man makes no reply except to nod and he undoes Crane's pants. There's just the sound of his zip and his quick breathing. He raises his hips off the bed and the young man slides Crane's pants and his underwear down in one motion. He straddles the older man and leans down to probe the tip of Crane's dick with his tongue.

"I said, just get on with it for fuck's sake," Crane spits, though it's hard to speak in level tones. The man says nothing but bends forward to take his dick in, as much as he can handle without choking.

Crane's quite sure he owns the only avox who still has a tongue. Instead, the man's got a neat little scar around his Adam's apple where the surgeons cut into his neck and cauterized his vocal cords. Crane needed a man with a tongue.

"Harder," Crane demands. Though perhaps his voice lacks some of its usual authority when it cracks on the last syllable. He tangles his hands into the avox's curly hair and pulls as hard as he wants. The hands braced on the bed to either side of Crane's head tighten until the knuckles are white, but the avox doesn't stop.

Looking past the blonde head of his avox, Crane can still see the screen. It's gone back to the point where the dragon first enters; he's watched it so many times, full of lust, and his own cleverness, that it's programed in now.

The small, wet sucking sounds the avox makes whenever he loses his seal are at odds with the scuffing feet and the dragon's claws on the rocks. But Crane loves Fallon's labored breathing. He twists his hands in the man's hair and he gasps and sighs at the same time the boy on screen cries out as his shoulder is shredded. It's nearly lost in the dragon's dying throes.

When Crane comes, he listens until he hears his avox swallow and then he lets himself flop back against the pillows. He breathes deeply, eyes closed as Fallon stands at the edge of the cliff and looks down at the ruin of the dragon on the rocks below.

"You may go now," Crane says. He sits up slowly and passes a hand across his eyes. There are several golden hairs stuck to his sweaty palm. "I won't be needing you tonight either."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Thanks to sohypothetically for being my lovely beta! Contains torture, blackmail and male rape. **

He feels the coolness of the blade up under his chin, and it's all Fallon can do to hold still. Hands clenched into fists, he's shaking, and for a moment he can't understand the voices around him.

* * *

_The thick smell of the marsh filled his nostrils, and made it harder to breathe. It felt like the air didn't want to go into his lungs. The midges fluttered around his face, paying particular attention to his eyes. He blinked rapidly and tossed his head, but he didn't have a free hand to swat them._

_ "Don't you let go."_

_ "I'm not, am I?" _

_ The sound of the child's ragged breathing was loud, so close by his ear. Fallon shifted his position. The tribute he's holding cried out as her arm was twisted. Both of them were pinned behind her back, and Fallon's hold was firm._

_ "Sorry," he said automatically. _

_ "Did you just say sorry?" Silk's voice was incredulous. She rolled her eyes and muttered something about District 2. She was from 1, and believed her district was one step below the Capitol, and above every other district. _

_ "You going to get on with this?" Fallon said roughly. _

_ "This is the only tribute we've found all day, got to make this one last." When Silk smiled, it didn't quite reach her eyes. She swung her mace threateningly, though it didn't quite have the effect she wanted when her arm wobbled. Fallon would have been able to do it better. _

_ "What's you name then?" Silk asked the girl._

_ "Irri." Her voice was so soft and she looked younger than her sixteen years, especially when she sagged against Fallon, knees weak._

_ "District 5, aren't you?" Silk asked again._

_ "Yes." Fallon felt the girl shaking against him and he loosened his hold slightly, because he didn't like feeling her fear. He didn't like knowing he was part of the cause. He'd been happy enough to run her down, bearing left to cut off the girl's escape while Silk cornered her._

_ "He killed your partner, did you know that?" Silk asked. She nodded to Fallon. "Should have heard how he sounded, trying to breathe when half his ribs were broken. Didn't sound good, did it Fallon?"_

_ "No." _

_ "He was trying to steal our gear," Silk continued. "He was stupid. We were sleeping with our food in the middle. Your little friend tried to creep past us, but we set a guard. Want to know what happened?"_

_ "You said you killed him," Irri burst out._

_ "Fallon was on guard. Your little friend tried to dodge past him, but he got his chest smashed open instead. He cried at the end, asked for his mother. So does that make you afraid of Fallon?"_

_ "Yes," Irri whispered._

_ "Are you more afraid of him than me?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "You're stupid then," Silk hissed. "I'm twice as dangerous." _

_ She drew a blade from her belt. A sponsor gift, since the cornucopia was filled only with maces. The knife was only small, not really much use for fighting. _

_ "Put her on her back, Fallon," she said. _

_ "Couldn't we just-"_

_ "Put her on her fucking back!" Silk shouted. Her voice was tense. _

_ Irri whimpered, and Fallon sighed. She was almost too scared to fight back, though when she was on the ground, she arched her back and tried to push him off. Fallon straddled her, pinning her arms with his knees. He avoided looking into her wide eyes and he could feel her frantic breath on his face._

_ "Silk, this is a bit much isn't it?" Fallon asked. _

_ "Shut up and hold her," she snapped. "Keep her head still. Unless you wanted me to cut you instead?"_

_ Irri was crying when Fallon gripped her chin with one hand and tangled the other firmly in her hair. He pulled her head back and didn't say anything else._

_ Silk went down on her knees and looked at Irri's face upside down. She held the little blade, but her hand was motionless. Her breath was coming nearly as quick as the younger girl's. Then she made the first cut._

_ Irri screamed. "No, please!" And then there were no words; she couldn't form them, not when Silk was peeling back a strip of skin from her forehead. Fallon felt his stomach heave and he shut his eyes. The girl thrashed wildly, and she just kept screaming. _

_ "Just stop it, Silk."_

_ "Can't handle it?" she asked. Her voice was a bit unsteady too. _

_ "You've shown how messed up you are, just kill her."_

_ "No," she said simply. "I'm putting on a show."_

_ "Silk, I'm warning you, I can't handle this," Fallon growled. _

_ "Going to be sick?" she mocked. _

_ "No, that's it, I'm not doing this anymore." Fallon stood, dragging Irri up with him. She swayed and he was the only thing holding her upright. _

_ "What the fuck are you doing?" Silk shouted. Fallon didn't answer. He dragged the girl upright, held her head in both his hands, and then it was done. As quick as a terrier killing a rat. He let her body flop to the ground, head twisted around unnaturally. The strip of bare flesh on her forehead was still bleeding._

* * *

"Hold still, it'll take two ticks."

Fallon opens his eyes and looks right at the apron of one his prep team. And it's just a razor, not a skinning knife, and the girl who wielded it against her fellow tributes is dead.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"And don't talk either, do you want me to cut you?" she even laughs a little bit. When Fallon jerks upright and grabs her wrist in his hand, her eyes widen in surprise. His hold tightens painfully.

"Let go!" she cries, but Fallon doesn't. He squeezes her wrist until the razor tumbles from her hand and lands on the floor. When someone puts their hand on his shoulder, he flinches and the woman cries out in pain as he twists her wrist.

"It's just a memory, Fallon, it can't hurt you." The speaker is a woman, another of his prep team. Her hair and her lips are dyed a rich red, and a tattooed tracery of veins runs across her face, done up in the same ink. Carmine red, and that's how she introduced herself when Fallon first came to the Capitol. The other two are Daria and Lyss. "Silk died, you know that, Fallon," she says softly, hand still on his shoulder. "You know Lyss isn't like that, she's just making you look nice for tonight. Go on, let go now."

Slowly he uncurls his fingers and drops his hands back into his lap, eyes downcast.

"I'm sorry, Lyss," he says guiltily.

She rubs her hand to get the feeling back, bending her fingers slowly. "Well," she sniffs, "if you do that again, you can have your hands strapped down."

"I won't," he says quickly.

"It's alright," Carmine says. "She was just exaggerating. We don't do that. Now are you going let us finish? We're nearly done."

Fallon nods and leans back obediently, and he grips the arms of the chair tightly. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back.

"Do you know what," Carmine says, "I think I can finish up here. You two finish early."

"Well, I've had enough," Lyss says, still rubbing her wrist.

When they're alone, Fallon is relieved. They aren't too bad really, the preps. They're just doing their job.

"That's better isn't it?" Carmine says, "The others don't really understand what you've gone through."

Fallon doesn't answer, because he's scared to talk while she's shaving under his jaw. But she's right; it doesn't take long.

"We're nearly done," Carmine says. "You'll look so nice for Crane. You're very lucky."

"I'm lucky," he echoes. No, the men who go to work everyday, dawn to dusk, in the quarries, they're the lucky ones. The kids who turn eighteen whose names are never pulled from the reaping bowl are lucky too. Fallon knows he could have been one of them. The kid he volunteered for, who was only fifteen and not even training, he was lucky.

Now he stands at Carmine's urging. He runs a hand over his jaw and doesn't like the smooth skin. But by tonight he'll have a dark shadow over his jaw and tomorrow a good crop of stubble. Before the tribute parade, the prep team shot something into his cheek that made his whole face burn and ache at the same time. Now he can't grow a beard, just stubble.

She doesn't touch the hair on his chest and back. He's the only tribute this year who isn't waxed from head to toe and he's glad for that. Cyra even had her arms waxed. When his stylist, Chantilly, sees him for the first time he raises his eyebrows.

"Well, you're no looker are you?" he says. "Not handsome at all, hmmm, we're going to have to think of something else."

Instead, Chantilly makes him look older. He tries to highlight the truth that Fallon is probably the strongest tribute, and the tallest. He lets him keep his dark stubble and lets him look like a man rather than a child. When he directs Fallon to the mirror he smiles.

"I wouldn't say ugly," the stylist mused, "but you're no Finnick Odair. Still, you look a safe bet."

Just the mention of Finnick Odair makes Fallon curl his hands into fists. When Finnick was reaped, Fallon remembers watching with Dirk. The older man scoffed at the gorgeous tribute on stage and told Fallon he was stronger. They watched on screen, and waited for Finnick to prove he was only a pretty face. At each kill, Fallon hated him a little bit more. The only reason Finnick won is because his competitors were half sick from drinking bad water, while Finnick got a water bottle whenever he looked up at the sky and asked for it. That's no way to win.

Now, the thought of Finnick Odair makes him feel sick. And there's no distracting himself this time, especially when Carmine tells him to drop his trousers.

"I know you don't like this, I'm sorry, but you've got to look nice for Crane," Carmine says. She takes a delicate pair of scissors to his pubic hair and Fallon desperately tries to think of anything else.

He breathes out in relief once she's done and dresses quickly in the clothes that are set out. They often put him in black. Today it's black slacks and a dark red shirt. The color suits someone who nearly took out the record for the most kills. That's another reason he hates Finnick; he couldn't beat the record of kills he set. Carmine steps up close and straightens his collar, then she steps back to take in the over all affect. Fallon resists the urge to fasten his buttons up to his neck.

"Just wait a moment, I'll be back." Carmine says. Fallon sits down and looks at the ground. When the lock clicks, Fallon furrows his brow and turns to her. His skin prickles like the temperature has just dropped. It's the same feeling as just before one of the big storms back in District 2. Everyone pauses, looks anxiously out the window and waits.

"Oh don't make that face, it makes you look stupid, and you don't have to show everyone that."

"Sorry," Fallon says automatically.

"I just called you stupid, aren't you going to say anything?"

"No," he says quietly.

"Of course you're not." Carmine smiles at him like he is a small child. "And you're not going to say anything about this either, are you?"

She sidles closer and Fallon leans back to get away from her. The smell of her perfume this close up is cloying and thick. He can't get up though; she's standing right in front of him, between his legs. Now she leans down and runs her hand lightly up his inner thigh. Fallon tries not to flinch; he's afraid to.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't you like it?" Her hand creeps higher until she strokes his dick through the fabric of his pants.

Fallon glances around, as if he's looking for help. But there isn't any help coming, not with the door locked. Besides, this is his life now. "Is this a date, like the others?"

"No, this is just a bit of fun," Carmine smiles. She keeps stroking him, and Fallon hates himself once he starts to harden. He puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her back, harder than he means to. She stumbles. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"But, if it's not a date, I don't want to."

"After what you did to Lyss, I think you should do as you're told."

"But, I didn't really hurt her!" Fallon says quickly.

"Didn't you? I saw you attacking her, and you wouldn't let go when she was crying. I could tell the peacekeepers that."

"But I didn't mean to!" Fallon's eyes are wide with confusion.

"Who knows what you mean? We all know you're a killer. They'll believe me."

"That's….that's not fair."

"That's how it is," Carmine says. "If you don't want me to tell anyone, you better convince me otherwise. Come on, we don't have very long."

Fallon rubs his hands nervously on his pants; his palms are sweaty already. "What do you want me to do?" His voice is flat, his face closed off.

"You can just do as you're told."

She's light in his arms when he picks her up and lays her down on the table. Her bright red hair splays out over the cold metal and she spreads her legs. Fallon doesn't have much experience; he's been with more women in the last week than he had before he became a victor. Her skirt is red of course, and her G-string underneath that. Fallon removes them clumsily and kneels in front of her. The metal's cold on his knees.

There are so many ties and straps on her shirt. His fingers fumble over them for a few moments before he works it out. He can use just about any weapons he's given, but this is strange territory. Finally he tosses her shirt on the ground and it pools like blood on the floor.

"Get on with it," Carmine orders.

He leans forward, bracing his hands on the table either side of her head. He can feel her hair under his fingers and tries not to pull it as he puts his lips on hers. But she brings her hands up and shoves him away.

"Not like that," she snaps, "got to be quick. Go down, now."

She's already wet and Fallon hates himself for responding to the sight. He feels sickened at the same time as he starts to stroke her. His fingers are more used to gripping the handle of a sword, holding someone's hands behind their back. His movements are already mechanical as he retreats into himself. He forgets even to smile.

"For fuck's sake!" Carmine hooks her legs up on his shoulders and snarls with frustration. She reaches down and grips his hand, dragging his fingers right to the entrance of her cunt. Fallon takes the hint. He's using three fingers by the time Carmine grips his wrist and drags his fingers onto her clit.

When she comes, she doesn't say his name. She swears instead. "Fuck, that's better. You've got no idea how hard it is for me to be seeing you naked all the time." All Fallon feels is relief as he climbs off the table and he resists the urge to wipe his slick fingers on his pants. He does wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Taste me," she orders. Fallon finds no satisfaction that she's breathing heavily. He grits his teeth then licks his fingers one by one while she watches. Still naked, she sidles up next to him and puts her hand on his cheek. She uses the same voice she used to comfort him earlier, but now it just makes his skin crawl, and he wants to turn away. "That wasn't too bad was it?"

Fallon shakes his head, but the way he leans away from her says otherwise.

"Not a word." She slides her hand down the front of his pants and he grits his teeth so he doesn't pull away. Carmine laughs. "Have fun tonight."

At the door, he has to pause to undo the latch, and Carmine calls back to him. Fallon tightens his hand on the door handle and looks back over his shoulder. Carmine's still naked, and she runs both her hands slowly up the inside of her thighs. "I'll see you tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Thanks to my wonderfully helpful beta, Sohypothetically. **

Outside the tribute tower, a sleek, black car waits. The driver, an avox all dressed in white, stands by the rear side door with hands clasped behind his back. The breeze is cold and buffets him, but he doesn't move inside to the shelter of the foyer, nor get back into the warm interior of the car.

Inside the foyer, marble columns support the ceiling and a tracery of real roses grows up one wall. They're a riotous mix of white and red, all tangled together. The red blooms are in full flower, but the white are still just buds. Their thick, cloying smell permeates the large space.

One wall is made of sleek silver elevators, mirroring the roses. So much red reflects dully on the metal and makes the whole place intimidating. Even the floor is cold and unforgiving stone, no carpet to soften it, and the bare walls are a stark white. It's an uncomfortable reminder to the two men standing near the doors of just who is in charge.

The two men are of a height; at least they would be if the younger didn't slump. His pose is utterly dejected; back to the wall, and head hanging forwards. His shirt, with only the bottom two buttons done up, gapes open.

"Don't slump," Dirk says automatically.

"Sorry, Dirk," Fallon replies. He makes the effort to stand straight and leans his head back against the wall. He looks up at the ceiling and blinks rapidly.

"Don't you cry," Dirk snaps. He wonders what's wrong, well, more wrong than usual. When Fallon came back from being with his prep team, he was even quieter than normal and only wanted to lie down. Dirk didn't press him, but now he sees his eyes are overly bright. "Remember why you have to do this, Fallon."

"I do."

"Really? Because if you've got red eyes and you're moping, it's not going to look good. Think about Vari and her baby."

"I always do!" For the first time since he came out of the arena, Fallon shows a flash of aggression and straightens up for a moment before going back to lean his head against the wall. Then he speaks more quietly. "I don't want anything to happen to Vari."

"Well, just you remember how easily it could, alright." Dirk knows he's being harsh, but he's been watching Fallon all day, watching for the signs his father showed, because he knows something is off. Though, he does admit, that's it's better Fallon was just laying on his bed rather than smashing anything he could get his hands on. Dirk knows it's so easy to go from smashing in a cupboard door, to shattering a jaw. "Newborn babies aren't strong. Little Thea could just die in her sleep, stop breathing, and nobody would think it was suspicious, and Vari, she's still weak from her birth, anything could happen, complications. So don't fuck up."

"I'll do it," Fallon says hastily, "you know I will."

"I know you'll do your best, Fallon." Dirk sighs heavily and his hand strays out before it drops back to his side. Now is not the time; this afternoon, Fallon flinched when their shoulders brushed over an early dinner. Dirk swallows and hates saying the words. "Just, do as you're told. You'll be alright. Except if Crane tells you to hit him, don't hit hard."

"Why would he do that?" Fallon's eyes widen in surprise.

"Sometimes, people like to reenact parts of your games." Dirk remembers, more than twenty years ago now, when he was called on dates. He used to be able to break someone's neck just like Fallon; it's a trick they teach all the District 2 boys. It looks good on screen. Dirk remembers slamming a woman against the wall of her bedroom, just hard enough to bruise. She was a gamemaker's wife and she told him to do it. He put his hands on her throat while she reached down for his cock. That was when he was young and strong still, before his hands started to shake, and before he did Snow a favor and the dates stopped.

"Oh," Fallon says quietly, and Dirk knows what he's thinking of; his wide-eyed expression shows it. When Fallon thinks of his games, there is one moment that always comes back.

* * *

_The five careers walked through the marsh, sweat pouring off them. Fallon and Cyra suffered the most, because they were used to the icy conditions in District 2. Barra was from District 4, and he didn't complain, saying he was used to the heat._

_They spread out as they walk, taking care not to have too many tread in the same place lest the creeping green ground cover part to reveal the thick, black mud underneath. It grasped at the soles of their shoes and made walking difficult. It was worse for the heavier boys, Fallon and Barra. _

_Barra was the furthest ahead, because he always liked to lead. Fallon didn't mind; he was happy to follow a bit off to the side. The girls, Silk and Cyra walked close together, but each choosing different paths while Lux from District 1 was out on the flank. _

_The sun was low on the horizon, nearly sinking into the marsh and it made it harder to see. The light was deceptive, and the shadows made it harder to see a clear path. Instead of looking out for tributes, they had to keep an eye out for the toxic pools. It was hard to make them out, when they were covered by a thick layer of green algae, nearly the same color as the ground cover. _

_It wasn't a very successful hunt. All five of them only found one tribute. The arena was large that year and it was slow going in the marsh. The cornucopia, and the blessed area of clear, hard ground around were an hour or so away. Barra's partner, Nerissa, waited there. On the first day, in the bloodbath, she took a cut to her thigh and it wasn't healing. It was beginning to fester in the heat. _

_Fallon mused over the sponsor gift he received last night. It was a knife, with a good, short, strong blade. Not like the knives he was used to fighting with, or even throwing. He wondered why Dirk didn't send him a sword, or a spear, because he's far more deadly with those, using either hand too. Maybe Dirk wanted to save money by only sending a small weapon? He had a feeling there was more to it than that though. The knife seemed to be more of a tool than a weapon. _

_When someone screamed, high and terrified, Fallon whipped his head around, expecting to see one of the younger tributes. He was shocked when he saw Cyra was the one who made the noise as she tripped into one of the cleverly concealed pools. The sides must have been straight down, and with the slick edges, she was struggling to get out. _

_"Fallon!" she called, trying to keep her head above water. She knew he was the only one who'd consider helping her out. The edge melted away under her fingers, and the algae made it hard to move her arms to swim. He didn't hesitate to run to her, and he was lucky not to fall himself. At the time he didn't notice how nobody else ran to help, even Silk who was closest. _

_"Hang on, I'm here," he said, bending low so he can reach out for her. Her hand grasped his just as she screamed again, and it was the most horrible thing he had ever heard. The flesh started to melt away from her fingers, and suddenly Fallon was gripping only bones in his hand. Cyra kept screaming as the acid in the water ate away at her. All the skin sloughed off her face in an instant, and for a moment her eyeballs looked out of her white skull, and then they were gone too. _

_The acid didn't burn Fallon's hand, or Cyra's clothes, but it ate everything else in moments. Fallon was left to watch Cyra's pale bones disappear beneath the layer of algae. When he realized he was still holding some of her finger bones he staggered back onto his knees and retched while the others watched quietly. _

* * *

"Don't worry, it won't be like that. It'll just be a fight," Dirk says and the relief on Fallon's face is pitiful. He knows what Fallon was thinking, because in his sleep he still calls out for Cyra to hold on. Hers is one of the most gruesome deaths; it's nearly as bad as the kids killed by the cannibal a few years back.

When the elevator on the end opens and a man in a deep green dinner jacket steps out, Dirk and Fallon both stiffen. They look like a pair of wolves ready to defend their territory. Even if they don't want it. Finnick Odair ignores their narrowed eyes and walks straight for the towering, revolving doors.

"Down boys," he smirks, "you'll get your chance later, Fallon."

They watch him go, and don't speak until the doors have stilled again. "What did he mean?" Fallon asks, biting his lip.

"Nothing, he's an idiot," Dirk snaps. "Time for you to go then."

"Really?" The look on Fallon's face is so hopeless. Dirk wishes more than anything he could be the one to follow Finnick out the doors and into the car. But he can't even bring himself to tell his nephew what will happen tonight. He wants to spare him, even an extra half an hour.

"Yes." His voice comes across much rougher than he means. "Go on."

Fallon doesn't respond except to mutter under his breath. Dirk thinks he catches two names as his nephew walks to the door, dragging his feet while he tries not to slump.

When Dirk's alone, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He goes back to their floor and sits himself on the couch, not noticing the velvety texture, or the way it's been re-upholstered to match the toxic green from Fallon's games. He doesn't feel like the company of his fellow victors. So he sets out to wait, and he knows he'll spend the night torturing himself as he imagines what Fallon's doing. He'll be ready with ice for the bruises when Fallon comes home.

But now, that's not what's on his mind, because more memories surface. The look on Fallon's face, the helplessness; it's just like Tahl's when he realized he was falling off the edge of the cliff and there was nothing to stop himself. Dirk won't ever forget that look.

* * *

_It was a blustery day eighteen years ago. Dirk knew he'll find his brother at the cliffs behind the victor's village. There was a beautiful view of the bloody sunset, but his brother didn't come to admire it. He liked to be alone here. It was ironic; in his games, Tahl was driven mad by loneliness, now he shunned the company of most. _

_Dirk found him where he expected, standing close by the edge of the cliff and looking down. Their father, Taro, the victor of the first games, used to tell his sons never to stand close to the edge of a cliff unless you mean to go over it. Tahl has been coming here more and more often lately, after returning from the Capitol. _

_"Did you hear, your wife had her baby? You've got a son, and he's healthy too," Dirk said, by way of greeting. He just wanted Tahl to know this, despite everything. His wife, Sara, fled the luxurious house in the Victor's village four months ago to return to her tiny home town, Flint. It's a wonder her baby was born healthy after the amount of times Tahl hit Sara, even knocking her over. He had got worse lately. _

_Tahl didn't even make a response. He kept staring down the cliff side, and his weight was even centered forward. It's all too easy. _

_"She named him Fallon," Dirk said. "I'll make sure they're all looked after." _

_"Good, it's better when they're not around," Tahl said at last, turning to his brother. Then more quietly, "Sara and Vari are scared of me."_

_Of course they are, Dirk thought, when Sara wears the bruises you give her, half of them taken shielding her daughter. He thought about telling Tahl that his family loves him really, but he didn't want his brother to hear a lie now, of all times. So he stayed silent as he stepped up next to Tahl. _

_Dirk felt lightheaded, as if he was afraid of the sheer drop. He never was before, but then, he had never thought of falling like this. He took a deep breath, shifted his weight forwards, but after a moment, he leant back again. Tahl didn't look at him. _

_Dirk closed his eyes for a moment. In his mind, he said sorry, but he didn't dare say it out loud. And then he shoved both hands, hard, into Tahl's back. For a moment, his brother seemed to hang over the edge, and Dirk saw his face as he twisted desperately, crystal clear. He didn't even shout; he was too surprised. And then Tahl fell over the edge, and the only sound was the dull thump when his body hit a ledge and then was flung off again. A few stones were dislodged and rattled down the slope after him._

_It took Dirk three tries to move to the edge and look down to where his brother lay, spread-eagled at the bottom of the cliff. He waited for half an hour, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest. The brisk wind of dusk dried the tears off his face quickly. Finally, as it grew dark, Dirk made his way back down towards the victor's village, to tell everyone that Tahl had jumped. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: Thanks very much to my beta, Sohypothetically. **

It's so quiet again on the second floor of the tribute tower. Fallon isn't there to give the mentors a reason to pull together. They'd rather spend time in their own company and don't want to risk the awkward moments of eye contact and the halfhearted efforts at conversation.

Dirk claims the green, velvet couch. He sprawls out across it, hands folded behind his head. In that position, the shiny white scars on his forearm are visible; even after twenty-six years, the scars from his arena haven't faded. Nor have the memories of the searing desert sands, and the way the sun turned anything metal into a branding iron.

His position looks relaxed but his body radiates tension. When Enobaria sweeps into the room, high heels clicking, Dirk sits up straight.

"You're staying up then?" she asks. Her voice always sounds a bit strained, a bit slurred because she tries to speak without letting her tongue touch the sharp points of her teeth. There's often blood in her mouth and maybe her clients like the taste.

"I won't be able to sleep, until Fallon's back," he says.

"There's fresh coffee brewed for you."

"Thanks."

When Dirk's alone, he doesn't lean back again. This time he starts pacing, imaging where Fallon is. His shadow is captured perfectly on the crisp white wall, down to the finest details. It even shows off his crooked nose, broken at the hands of his brother. Dirk wonders if Fallon will come home with a broken nose, and if the prep team will bother to fix it straight. They probably won't for the same reason they left his dragon scars.

Dirk knows that the stylists have picked their angle for Fallon. He's meant to be rugged, and a man already. That's why they touched up his scars, where they weren't perfectly formed, instead of erasing them. They'd be happy if he had a broken nose. But for Dirk, he can't shake the memory of his nephew when he was young, when he first came to the career academy.

* * *

_Dirk hadn't visited Flint for eight years because he didn't like seeing the remainder of Tahl's family. They were an uncomfortable reminder of what he'd done. Never mind the reasons. But he took the three day journey up the twisting switchbacks that year because Fallon was old enough for the first intake at the career academy. He didn't consider Vari, because she had a problem breathing if she exerted herself too much. But there had to be someone in the family. It was impossible that the Capitol would let a generation of the family pass without at least one tribute chosen._

_Sara was wild when he said he wanted to take her son away. Maybe because she'd fought so hard to keep him and spent her whole pregnancy wondering if she would be able to stand another blow. And maybe she thought Dirk was like Tahl too, like her husband had been. _

_He wasn't always like that that. With Dirk's help, Tahl made it through five years of being a victor. There had been incidents before, starting at just small things, even just changes in mood. It wasn't until after a few years that Dirk really began to fear for the family's safety. _

_The danger started when Tahl hit a client; the woman hadn't asked for it. Her husband owned most of the plantations in District 7. She lost three teeth, and broke her jaw. As soon as she could speak, she was demanding blood. _

_Dirk remembered well, when Tahl came home early, shaking, talking to himself. It took three tries to catch his attention and get him to sit down quietly. The next morning, Dirk was summoned to a private audience with President Snow. He'd had ample time to learn to fear the smell of roses, and the large vase of delicately yellow blooms on the desk made him feel sick. _

_"Sir, please, give him another chance. He's got a family." Dirk's voice caught on the last word; family. Tahl had a family; a little daughter and a wife who fled him months ago with her face still a mass of bruises and a nervous twitch in her eye. As far as he knew, Sara went back to her tiny home village, Flint, to hide from her husband's fists. She was lucky it was winter so she could hide her and her daughter's bruises under thick coats and scarves. _

_"I am giving _you_ a chance," the president answered. "It's too late for your brother."_

_"Sir, if you could just let him go home, don't arrange any more dates. If you gave him a break-"_

_"It's too late for that." The President made a steeple of his hands and looked at Dirk over them. He even smiled a little, lips wet and creased. "Tahl is no more use to us. He's worse than that. He's a liability. It's too late for your brother, but I'm giving you a chance to save his family."_

_Dirk listened in shock. Slowly, his face set and he found it hard to breathe past the lump in his throat._

_ "If I do that, you won't hurt the family, the kids?" _

_"No. Unless of course they're reaped. That is out of my control." Here he chucked, belaying the lie. "I'll even give you a break too. No more dates. I'm sending you both back to District 2. You can do it there, make it look like an accident."_

_Dirk swallowed twice before he could get the words out. "I have your word that the family won't be hurt?"_

_"You have my word," Snow agreed. "Do your part, and we will forget about this whole incident." _

_Dirk never told Sara that he killed her husband, or why. It was part of Snow's conditions. Dirk didn't know Sara well, but if he did, he would have known she'd have taken up Snow's offer more readily than he did. Which mother wouldn't, when her little daughter had a black eye that she hadn't quite managed to block. Perhaps if she'd known what Dirk did, she would have been more trusting, more willing to give her son up to him for training. Or perhaps much less. _

_She came around though, once her initial shock was over; it was just that Fallon was so young. Sara knew the sense in having her son trained; it was all too likely he would be the one chosen to try to continue the family's winning streak. Better Fallon than Vari, with her asthma. In the end, she pulled his arms away from her waist firmly and swiped the tears off his face. _

* * *

Dirk still remembered the little boy who turned around in his seat in the front of the jeep as they headed back to Marble. Fallon spent the first hour, turned around, up on his knees until Flint was no longer visible behind the shoulder of the mountain.

The first night at the career academy, Dirk shoved Fallon into a room with a dozen other boys his age. He had half a mind to send them home; in ten years, Fallon _would _be volunteering, or the family would all pay for it. The Capitol had grown to expect much from the Lockyer family. They had to continue their role. But Fallon didn't know that, and even Sara wasn't fully aware.

Dirk _was_ painfully aware of it. That was why he gave Fallon a sharp shove between the shoulder blades and told him to stop crying. Remembering that little boy only makes it worse for Dirk now when he thinks about the date.

* * *

The car drives smoothly, and the driver doesn't make a sound. There's no fear of him overhearing conversation, because he can't repeat it anyway. Fallon leans into the side of the car, as far away from Finnick as he can. The other man lounges at ease, a smirk on his face.

"You really hate me, don't you?" he says.

"You didn't win properly," Fallon replies shortly. He stares pointedly out the window. It's dark outside, and the lights move by quickly. By the sound of it, there is a party going on a few blocks away.

"You don't get it do you?"

"Get what?"

"The games," Finnick says. "Nobody gives a fuck how you win, alright? It's just about surviving. And look at you, the way you're going, you'll be burnt up in a year, and I'll still be here." To illustrate his point, Finnick stretches back and puts his hands behind his head.

"I don't get what you mean," Fallon says.

Finnick chuckles and it makes Fallon shiver. He disentangles one arm and leans over the other man, putting his hand on his thigh. Finnick doesn't even look surprised when Fallon snarls and puts both hands to his throat, the seatbelt digging into his chest. Finnick pretends it isn't a little hard to breathe, though his face is going red. The avox driver looks back in the mirror and then puts his eyes on the road again.

"Don't….don't touch me," Fallon growls.

"See," Finnick says. His voice is strained but he doesn't let on. "That's why you're never going to survive. You won your games, but you've still lost it."

Fallon slowly removes his hands from Finnick's throat. He turns away again to look out the window. He leans his elbow on the door and covers his eyes with his hand. Finnick surreptitiously takes deep breaths and looks straight ahead. When he recognizes Crane's large house, he leans his head back against the seat for a moment and closes his eyes. When he opens them, the car purrs to a halt and he plasters a smile on his face. It has taken years of practice to make the smile actually reach his eyes.

Finnick waits for the avox to open the door, and takes a deep breath as he gets outside. The air isn't salty; it smells of rich spices, and the faint tinge of petrol and smoke.

"Let's get this over and done with," he says.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: Thanks to Sohypothetically for beta-ing for me. **

The house is grand. Situated just two loops below the presidential circle, it is nearly the pinnacle of prestige. Crane had worked his way up; moving from his parents' house to a modest flat. That was when he was a junior gamemaker, because his father did him no favors.

A few years hard work as part of the team responsible for landscape saw Crane finally head that department. His precise drawings were noticed, and he was finally able to do more than stash them away. Now, as the head gamemaker, he doesn't draw much anymore. He works with things so much better than pencils and paper. He doesn't have to draw when he can hover above the prospective arena and command landscaping crews to dig a trench that will form a river.

Crane waits in his red velvet bedroom. He doesn't want to have a dinner date; he doesn't need to have the pretense of a romance. As a gamemaker, he understands how the victors work. Now the screens are all dulled, matt black. Crane won't need them tonight.

There are a dozen steps up to the grand entrance of Crane's house. Fallon is reminded of the Justice Building back home. He only ever saw it once, and his goodbyes weren't much to remember. None of his family were there except Dirk, who popped in to say he'd be waiting on the train. The doors, highly polished wood, open before they can knock. When they shut behind the two men, the sound makes Fallon tense his shoulders. Well, tense them more.

"You ready for this?" Finnick asks. They stand in the foyer, all crisp white walls, except for one, a feature wall, painted a deep crimson. It's similar to Fallon's shirt. They don't wait long before an avox dressed in white bows in front of them, as if they're better than he is. They're all just slaves really. Fallon doesn't answer so Finnick continues. "It won't be so bad really."

"Really?" Fallon asks, because he wants to believe it, even from Finnick.

Finnick laughs at the hope in his voice. He feels so much older, because although they're the same age, Finnick knows what it's like to be an adult now. "No. It's going to be the longest night of your life."

They walk up carpeted stairs, following the avox. They're wide enough to walk side by side easily, but Fallon hangs back behind Finnick. He wishes he could run. Unconsciously, he plans an escape in his mind. It would be easy to swing his leg over the bannister, hang, and then drop to the soft carpet. But he's not naïve enough to think this is something he can escape from.

"Want some advice?" Finnick asks.

"Not from you," Fallon snaps.

Finnick ignores that and speaks slowly. "When he's fucking you, or I am, just try to pretend it's one of the boys from your career academy. Or your uncle. Whatever floats your boat."

"Don't you talk about him like that." Fallon increases his stride until he's level with Finnick. He's a few inches taller, and much stronger, and he pushes the other man against the wall. When Finnick just laughs, Fallon grinds his teeth and slams him against the wall again.

Finnick's head hits the plaster this time and he blinks to clear his sight as if he were shaking water out of his eyes. Fallon watches with his lip curled up in a sneer. It doesn't suit him. When Finnick tries to stamp down on his instep, he shifts his foot like he was expecting it. Fallon shakes him.

"You're getting into the swing of it," Finnick says, trying to make his voice his usual confident drawl.

"What?"

"Didn't anyone tell you what you'd have to do?" Finnick raises his eyebrows. Even though Fallon is holding him pinned to the wall, he acts casually.

"Not exactly." Fallon shifts uncomfortably.

"Follow my lead," Finnick says, and he jerks himself out of Fallon's hold to follow the avox again.

The avox stops and bows outside a lavishly carved door. The wood has come straight from the old growth forests in District 7. It's heavy, thick. No sound would penetrate. At the avox's quick gesture, the two men step through. Finnick hitches his smile across his face and Fallon does his best not to show how sick he feels, but he looks pale.

At first, Crane is hard to notice. He's wearing a red silk robe that blends in with the covers on the huge bed. There are at least a dozen pillows on which Crane reclines, ankles crossed. He has a delicate, long stemmed glass in his hand, filled to the brim with a pale green liquid.

"So, you're here," he purrs. "Why don't you make a start?" Crane gestures languidly with his free hand, and the cameras mounted in two corners of the room flash red, then green and begin to record.

Fallon doesn't realize he's backing away until his back hits the solid door. His heart's racing the same way it did when he put his back to the rust red rocks and faced the approaching dragon mutt. He knew how to handle that situation, but now he's floundering.

Finnick follows him across the room, taking quick steps and getting in his face. He kicks his shoes off as he goes. With a different smile on his face now, one full of artificial lust, Finnick tears Fallon's shirt off and tosses it on the floor. He runs his hands up the other man's chest, tangles one hand in his hair and tugs on it. Fallon's got nowhere to go, but he still jerks backwards when Finnick runs his tongue across the scars on his shoulder. All he does it knock his head on the heavy wooden door.

Fallon wants to close his eyes and pretend it's not happening. He nearly does. There were times like that in the arena, when he lay down with the other careers to sleep and tried to pretend their breathing was just the other boys he shared a room with back in the career academy. But he can't do that here.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands. Finnick's body is foreign, so he keeps his hands by his sides as the other man licks his way up from his shoulder to his neck.

"Try to look convincing," Finnick hisses in his ear. He drags Fallon's onto his arse and makes him pull him closer. He turns the two of them so they stand in profile to Crane. Fallon hates the feel of Finnick's body pressed up against him, and his tongue and hands are worse. When Finnick kisses him, and pushes his tongue between his lips, Fallon feels his stomach heave. Finnick tastes of something sweet and cloying.

"You're not very enthusiastic." Crane's voice is lazy, but for both victors, it is dangerous. Even Fallon realizes it. He moves his hands up Finnick's back and slips his jacket off, kicking it out of their way. He forces himself to do the same with his shirt, but he can't quite bring himself to tear it off. When Finnick reaches his hands between their bodies and unzips Fallon's slacks, he can't even bite down, because the other man's tongue is in his mouth. He's tempted to do it anyway.

Reclining on his pillows, Crane takes another sip of his drink and he enjoys the pressure in his groin. There's something so pleasurable about holding off, when he knows that at a single word, he can have both the victors in his bed next to him. He caresses himself languidly with one hand.

"That's a bit better," he says. "Come on, clothes off."

When Fallon feels Finnick's hands slip below the waistband of his underwear, he can't repress a shiver. It's not a good feeling. Those hands are smooth and practiced as they slide his underwear down, but the only time Fallon's actually enjoyed it was with Cyra and her fumbling, uncertain touch. He hates kicking his underwear off because now he's completely vulnerable. He fights the urge to cover himself.

"Very nice," Crane purrs. "Come here, both of you."

They stand side by side, by his bed. Crane leans back and his eyes are greedy as he takes them in. Fallon know he's blushing, and he bites down on his lip so he doesn't squirm under Crane's inspection.

"Still shy. I like that," Crane says. "Now, touch each other." It doesn't sound like a command, but then again, Crane is a man who is used to not raising his voice. People do what he wants before he asks. The only person Crane has to answer to it the president.

Finnick's hands go everywhere, and his lips too. Both are smooth. So is his skin; he's been waxed all over his body. Fallon's hands are rough and calloused by comparison. There are scars from the games and scars from his training. There are also even earlier scars; ones he got when he was a young child, scrambling about the quarry when the workers went home for the night, because all the children played there. The skinned knuckles were just part of it.

Now Fallon leans up against the wall, because Finnick is pushing him there, insistently. He can feel the cool plaster, growing warmer with his body heat, against his back at the same time as Finnick licks his way down his stomach, following the line of coarse hair.

Fallon's hands hover awkwardly until he realizes he should be doing something. _Remember who you're doing this for. _He puts his hands on Finnick's smooth shoulders and tries to pretend he likes the play of muscles there. When Finnick kneels down in front of him, he clumsily runs his hands through the bronze hair and wonders why so many women want to do this. He just feels how it's damp with sweat.

Though his skin crawls at each touch, and he fights not to shiver, Fallon stays put. He tries to think of it as just holding his ground against a tough opponent. He tries to put it in terms that he understands. But when Finnick cups his balls, it's too much. Fallon barely realizes what he's doing, but he shoves Finnick back, hard, so the other man lands on his rump.

For a moment, Fallon freezes. _I don't want anything to happen to Vari. _And then Finnick laughs throatily and tangles his legs with Fallon's, tripping him neatly so he falls on top and their bodies are pressed together again.

"Oh very good," Crane says. He tosses his empty glass to the side, heedless of where it falls. "Now, I want you to hit him."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: Thanks to Syhopthetically, my beta. **

Outside the tribute tower is another party. It's before midnight, so the strangest Capitol creatures have not shown their faces yet, but what's out there is bad enough already.

They've taken to drinking a cocktail that's the same color as the toxic pools from the arena. It causes a mild burning sensation, but nothing harmful, they say. When someone pressed on one Fallon at the reception after his interview, he took one sip and then there were shards of glass everywhere as the cup shattered in his hand. He didn't even notice he was bleeding until the woman hanging off his arm bent down to suck the cut on his finger.

The steady pulse of music can be felt in the tribute tower like a dull hum. It reverberates in the chest, just on the edge of hearing. Dirk's nearly glad of it, because it keeps him awake. There is no way he is going to sleep tonight. He doesn't even change for bed though his black slacks and shirt are uncomfortable. Dirk has been wearing black for twenty-six years, by popular demand, ever since his uniform in the arena was that color.

It was a cruel twist by the gamemakers; Dirk's arena was an alien landscape with twisted, dead trees and pale sand. Among the bare white limbs of the trees and the shifting white sand, there was no hiding for the tributes. Of course, Dirk didn't want the tributes to be hiding, so it did work in his favor.

There are too many faces in his mind. Dirk keeps remembering Fallon just this morning, asking why he wasn't told what was going to happen to him. Dirk answered as best as he could; it's the same answer his father gave him.

Taro Lockyer is something of a legend. There isn't a child anywhere who doesn't know the name of the first victor of the Hunger Games. That's what they call him in public at least. But even a few people in District 2 whisper other things about him, and it was worse when he first won.

The Lockyers supported the Capitol through the rebellion. Along with half of District 2, they were pitted against the rest of Panem. Taro was a soldier, as were his father and brother. He saw service towards the end of the rebellion because by then, both sides were getting desperate for new forces. Taro became a soldier at sixteen.

When the reapings came around, Taro's name was pulled and there was an outcry in the Capitol; the Hunger Games were meant to punish the rebels not their loyal soldiers. Taro used it to his advantage. He took a medal won by his father as a token and he wore it proudly to remind all the Capitol sponsors who he'd fought for.

In all of his interviews, he was stoic and strong, nodding to the women who sobbed in the audience and shouted that it was dreadful he was being punished. Taro simply said he would accept it because he trusted in the Capitol.

Even the gamemakers couldn't tell if he was acting, but they latched onto the idea and directed the cameras to him. The Capitol had to have a hero after all; they had to have someone to follow. They found that person in the strong, gracious soldier who wore his medal proudly, rather than the sullen and terrified children of rebels.

When Dirk was growing up, the memory of the first games was still fresh, and it followed him around. Some people called his family traitors, just a few, but more, even the patriots, were sickened at how quickly Taro turned killer. Dirk wasn't though; he just thought his father had been more honest with himself than any of the other kids.

Even the tributes who crossed their arms and refused to fight turned killer in the end, except the ones who were blown up when they wouldn't leave their plates.

As it was the first games, nobody knew how it was going to work. Some people loudly proclaimed that a fight to the death was foolish, and it would merely be games, truly. Some tributes even held that view. Taro won, not just because he was strong and he's been trained, but because he worked out what was going on first. He believed the Capitol when they said he would have to kill.

* * *

_ Twenty four children stood on their plates, surrounding the golden horn. It was all unfamiliar to them, though their escorts had told them something of what to expect. The escorts were former Capitol soldiers; a mercy, because they could help the tributes plan and tell them how to fight._

_Some tributes were shaking and crying. One girl wet herself on the plate and the cameras turned away from her. They spent a good deal of time focusing on Taro. He stood with his feet braced, ready to sprint like his escort told him. _

_When the gong sounded, he was the only one who ran. A few others stepped hesitantly off their plates, but more just stayed there, reluctant to enter the arena properly. The plate was like their link to home, until they started to blow up. It only took two tributes to get the others all onto the cracked cement that formed the arena. It was made to look like a typical district street, shattered by the bombings. _

_Taro reached the cornucopia easily and looked over the supplies. He knew how to fight with a gun, but he wasn't too bad with knives either. It was worth knowing, because sometimes guns ran out of bullets. He grabbed a sheath of knives and turned around to see that nobody else had followed him. _

_Some tributes hovered around their plates still, and others were backing away slowly. A couple sat on the ground with their heads in their hands. Taro unsheathed a knife and he picked up speed, running. _

_When he slammed the knife into the chest of a tribute who didn't even show fear, just shock, he barely paused. It was not the first time Taro had killed. Not by a long shot. He was noted down in history as making the first kill of the games. The child he killed was the first victim, though not for long. _

_Once Taro had killed a second tribute in the same way, the rest of them started to get the idea. Most ran or stumbled away through the wreckage, but a few of the braver ones went for the golden horn and the weapons. Taro placed himself in the mouth of it and killed one tribute before he could arm himself. _

_He had his first fight with a boy from District 8 who managed to sneak past and get himself a short sword. It was uneasy in his hands though and did him little good. _

_Five tributes were killed at the bloodbath, all by Taro. By the end of the games, which only lasted ten days because the arena was not large, he killed twelve tributes. That was half. No tribute ever came close to matching that, not even Taro's sons or grandson. _

_The next year, the tributes took it more seriously. The gamemakers saw the advantage of a tribute like Taro. It was all very well watching clumsy, frightened children hack each other to death, but throw in a couple of well trained tributes, and it was even better. President Vernard made a subtle suggestion to Taro and the first career academy was started in District 2 the next year._

* * *

Dirk was always proud of his father, but he hated him at the same time. The children of a victor were likely to be reaped, it was soon established, so Taro started training his sons and began the tradition that had now taken Fallon as well.

It wasn't like he had a choice though; by the time Fallon was born, the family had established a tradition for victors already. There were more victors in their family now than some of the outlying districts had altogether. Dirk knew there'd have to be a tribute from the next generation of the Lockyer family. He never even let Fallon think he had a choice; if he hadn't have volunteered they all would have suffered for it. Dirk was proud when at eight years old, Fallon said he wanted to be a tribute.

The music intensifies as the night wears on. Dirk gets up to change the view out the window; he doesn't want to look out and see more of those hologram-dragons. Watching the real one was bad enough. He doesn't turn the window into a picture of home, like he does for Fallon; he just leaves it blank and leans his head back on the couch for a moment. He doesn't mean to close his eyes.

* * *

_In Dirk's arena, the 43__rd__ games, there is no color. Tributes dressed in tight black leather fought under a bone white sky. The ground was pale sand that shifted and made it harder to run, particularly for the heavier tributes. Dead trees with pale, twisted limbs dotted the landscape which was designed like a large bowl with sloping sides. Tributes could walk from one side to the other in a day if they pushed themselves. Of course, once the games began to take their toll, they could not make it so quickly. _

_Even the wells that provided the only water were made of white brick. It was nearly impossible to pick them out from the white sand and tributes were lucky to stumble across them. However, it was very easy to see the tributes. Even from a distance, they showed out starkly against the sand. This made the games problematic; while the predator could see the prey, they could be seen as well. Especially when the arena never became dark; there was the same even, white light that seemed to come from everything evenly, all day and all night._

_Because the other tributes could see them coming, Dirk and the other careers made most of their kills by sheer stamina. There was nothing to eat in the arena, so sponsorship prices had been lowered, since that was the only way a tribute could get food. Each of the districts were even given an allowance by the gamemakers. This created cruel choices for the mentors, especially those with tributes who would receive little to no sponsorship. Some mentor teams decided to use all their funds on the tribute with the better chance. That meant letting the other starve. _

_Being better fed with their sponsorship, and with the endurance that came from years of having enough food, and even some body fat, the careers hunted down the other tributes. Most of the time, when they caught the poor child, stumbling and falling on the sand, they offered no fight at all. Dirk's blade, and those of his allies, only finished off the job that starvation and exhaustion had begun._

_One thing that struck him was the lack of color. At first, it seemed like nothing, but after a week, it started to weight on all of the tributes. Even the weapons and supplies from the cornucopia were either black or white. Dirk used dual swords, with the blade enameled black. _

_The times they did get a splash of color were rare, and stuck in the memory. Dirk became fixated with the boy from District 1 because his eyes were a bright, electric blue. Another of his allies had fiery red hair. While Dirk didn't care for the girl or the boy; he just wanted to keep looking at them. The only other time they saw bright color was when they made a kill and the red blood flowed out of the tribute and soaked the pale sand. _

_When he won, after killing the boy with the beautiful blue eyes, Dirk was overwhelmed by the colors of the Capitol, even just the blue sky. He couldn't stop looking and he hated it when his stylist insisted on dressing him entirely in black. _

* * *

Dirk wakes with a start, and he lurches upright, just the same way Fallon does. His hands curl automatically into fists, but then one goes to press his lower back and he winces. He shakes himself, to clear the dream that was really just a memory, and changes the image on the window. He chooses to look at the Capitol party again, because he can't think of anything that would be more colorful.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: Thanks to by beta, Sohypothetically **

Flint is barely a village; it would be more accurate to call it a simple collection of cottages. Most of them are situated within a stone's throw of the quarry, and nearly all of the adults, both men and women, work there. Even the older children do too, even if it is just running errands between the workers.

Though the village is tiny, the cottages are snug and well maintained. As favorites of the Capitol, District 2 does not suffer the same poverty as others. Despite this, each child takes out as much tesserae as possible because the number of entries they have in the reaping doesn't matter when there will always be a volunteer. And even the Capitol favorites can find a use for extra grain and oil.

Thin trails of smoke rise from the single chimney of each house, because at this time of night, the fires are burning low. The trails of smoke wind their way up and are soon lost in the dark sky. There is never enough smoke to threaten to block out the multitude of stars.

Few people are awake; the working day starts at dawn. However, in one of the cottages, a young woman is awake, sitting by the window. She murmurs gently to the baby suckling at her breast and uses her free hand to pull aside the thick curtains.

Vari was able to watch most of Fallon's games, but she went into labor very close to the end. Laying on the floor of her bedroom with only the midwife for company, Vari listened to the television in the next room that hadn't been turned off since the reaping. Her mother took turns between watching the screen and dashing back to be with her daughter. At least she could offer her daughter some comfort; there was nothing she could do for her son.

As her labor intensified, Vari couldn't concentrate on the sounds from the next room. She barely registered it when her mother dashed back in, her face twisted in worry for both her children, and told her that Fallon was one of the final three tributes.

Vari held her little daughter for the first time soon after her mother told her that Fallon was in the finale. She demanded that her mother and the midwife help her to where she could watch. They didn't argue, so Vari nursed her daughter for the first time, eyes glued to the screen. In District 2, there was no age that was too young to watch the games. When the final fight began, Vari had to stop herself from squeezing her daughter in fear, then fierce pride as her brother became a victor.

She smiles gently as she looks out to the east; the general direction of the Capitol. Marble is generally that way too, and the Victor's Village. She's looking forward to when her brother will finally come home, and she hopes he'll visit. He won't have to work, so there is no reason why he won't be able to make the journey up to Flint.

It has been three years since she saw Fallon. The three-day drive from Flint to Marble was not one to be made lightly. Even though she knew she he was volunteering this year, Vari was too heavily pregnant to make the journey. Before that, when she was still of reaping age, they would see each other once a year. The last time she saw Fallon, he was fifteen and already taller than her and starting to fill out. Every year she saw him, he insisted on showing her what he had learnt at the career academy. One year he held her in a half nelson until she gave up and laughed with him. Even when he was twelve years old, Vari remembered smiling with pride and thinking that he had a better chance at winning than plenty of the children from poorer districts.

Vari wonders what her younger brother is doing now. Calculating the time difference, Vari supposes it will be before midnight in the Capitol. She expects Fallon will be at a party, like the Capitol is famous for. Vari chuckles to herself when she imagines her awkward little brother dressed in a smart suit with a glass of champagne. He looks better, she decides, without the silly beard he insisted on growing. She imagines how Fallon would blush at the attentions of the Capitol women, but would be too shy to speak to them without making a fool of himself. And their uncle Dirk would be there to make sure he didn't get too friendly with them. Vari shakes her head and smiles to herself.

* * *

Fallon raises himself up on his elbows, lips parted in confusion. He looks at Crane, and then Finnick for an answer. He receives one of sorts when Finnick brings his knee up, hard, against his chest. Fallon grunts and rolls off. He sets his jaw because in his mind, he's imagining a real fight. He knows he's got the advantage over Finnick, especially without a weapon.

Instead, he tries to get his breath back and doesn't get up even when Finnick gets lazily to his feet.

"Get up," Finnick says simply. He follows it with a kick to Fallon's ribs. At least Fallon has the presence of mind to realize that Finnick means no more than to bruise. It's just hard for him to remember that himself.

On his feet now, Fallon takes a defensive stance. He catches Finnick's wrist when the man aims a punch to his jaw. For a moment, Finnick strains against him, then reaches his free hand up to caress Fallon's cheek. Then he twists violently and pulls his wrist free, leaving Fallon with his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Come on," Finnick taunts. "You want to hit me, touch me, go on."

Fallon has to remind himself that he isn't really fighting for his life, but it's so good to swing a punch at Finnick's smiling face. It's been a week since he did this, since he fought, and Fallon has forgotten how exhilarating it is. He can nearly forget about Crane watching. He smiles slightly himself when Finnick staggers back, narrowing his eyes as he touches his hand to his split lip.

Now Fallon's got a taste for blood. He advances on Finnick, and doesn't see the slight warning in his bright green eyes. Finnick backs away. This time, when he swings a punch, Fallon follows it up quickly with another and Finnick has to swallow the blood in his mouth rather than spit on the carpet.

"Oh yes," Seneca says softly as Fallon backs Finnick into a corner. Finnick's smile cracks a little, and the desperation shows through. He tries to trip Fallon again, but ends up on his back while Fallon straddles him, pinning his arms down. When Fallon's hands go around his throat, there is real panic in his eyes.

"Fallon," Finnick hisses, "enough."

"You said to hit you," Fallon snarls. He tightens his grip and feels Finnick squirm under him.

"What the fuck!" Finnick gasps, still trying to keep his voice low. His face is turning red beneath his golden tan. He tries to raise his voice, panting. "Please, we need a quick break."

"Very well," Seneca sighs, "five minutes."

It's Crane's voice, the intrusion of it that makes Fallon stop. He loosens his grip and sits up slightly, turning to the sound. Finnick sucks in a deep breath and wrenches Fallon's hands off him.

"Get up," he mutters.

Finnick leads the way out the door. He's still taking deep breaths, but his smile is back in place, and he reaches his hand back to catch Fallon's. A few paces down the passage is another door, and they enter a lavish bathroom. The bath is sunken; big enough to hold half a dozen people and all the fittings are gold and marble. Fallon wonders which quarry it came from.

Finnick shuts the door and speaks in a low, harsh voice. "What the fuck! I said to hit me; you're not meant to kill me."

Fallon doesn't meet the other man's eye. He twists his hands together like a child. "I didn't mean to," he hesitates, "I'm sorry."

"You're lucky, that's what," Finnick snaps. "I said you were just going to burn out, but if you do that again, you're going to get yourself killed, and your family."

"What?"

"You don't get it, do you?" Finnick snaps again. "We don't have choices like other people do. We might as well be avoxes; we're owned the same way. We're property, alright? If you 'damage' me, you're answerable to the president. And if you pull the same crap on a patron, fuck, I feel sorry for you. It'd be more than your life's worth."

Fallon draws his breath in sharply and leans back against the wall. He still doesn't meet Finnick's hard gaze.

"Are you going to say anything?" Finnick demands. "Do you even understand?"

"I…" Fallon starts, "I'm scared."

"Of being hurt?"

"No, what if I hit Crane too hard? What if I can't stop again?" Now he raises his eyes, and they're overly bright with unshed tears. He implores Finnick. "Please, can you help me in there?"

Finnick holds Fallon's gaze for a moment and is struck again by just how young Fallon seems. Finnick thinks it's been years since he's felt young himself. Then he turns to one of the two sinks and splashes cold water on his face, spitting blood into the plughole. He sighs heavily.

"Follow my lead and I'll try to stop you getting yourself killed."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note: Thanks to my beta, Sohypthetically. Warning for rape. **

Outside Crane's mansion, the stars are out in full force and the late moon has finally risen- at least in the districts. In the Capitol, the holograms and the lights and the neon billboards turn the moon into a pale shadow of itself, and the stars are not to be seen. Inside Crane's bedroom, the curtains are drawn anyway. They are rarely opened.

On the bed with the red silk covers, Fallon lies on his back and tries to turn his head so that he can't feel Finnick's breath on his face. The other man is poised right above him and Fallon wonders if he's going to kiss or bite this time. Fallon's neck and shoulders already have marks from Finnick's teeth, even over his perfect scars. When the thought comes, his stomach churns, but he's starting to think Finnick's lips might be better than his teeth, even if he does taste like blood; his lips still bleed from Fallon's punches.

As Finnick lowers himself down, Fallon tries to squirm away from the unaccustomed weight on his chest. The feel of the other man's smooth skin makes him shiver. He's got goose-bumps even though both of them are sweating.

When Finnick leans down, Fallon flinches and hates how the side of his neck is exposed. Finnick's breath is hot on his skin and he puts his mouth close to his ear.

"Relax," he whispers, so quietly that Fallon isn't sure it's not just his breathing, "it'll hurt less, later."

The intention is good, but the words are an unfortunate choice. Crane chuckles darkly as Fallon arches his back and tries to roll Finnick off him. Finnick's green eyes narrow and he meets the other man's gaze just for a moment. He leans forwards again and captures Fallon's wrists and drags his arms back over his head.

Fallon closes his hands into fists and struggles to move but he can't free his hands with Finnick's weight on them. The room around seems to darken for a moment; the shadows in the corners advance, and his breath comes quickly. Crane chuckles again, mistaking it for arousal. Unbidden, a girl's face flashes into Fallon's mind and her typical District 1 features are twisted in pain. Her blue eyes and delicately arched brows don't look so elegant now.

"I'm sorry," he pants, "I-" Finnick has to stop him with a kiss that has their teeth clashing together.

* * *

_The marsh had only become hotter from the first day. The humidity increased too, until even at night when they lay perfectly still, sweat beaded over the tributes' skin. Now, in the later afternoon, the heat and the humidity showed no sign of abating. _

_This time, the three boys went out hunting. Two cannons fired during the day; one was their kill, the District 6 boy, and the other came an hour or so later. Each cannon meant one less obstacle for them, but at the same time, the careers would prefer they were the only things hunting in the marsh. _

_It was unsettling to think of mutts prowling around the foul pools, leaving no tracks on the soft groundcover. Worse was the possibility that another tribute was killing too. Fallon ran through in his mind, all the tributes who were left. He couldn't think of any that were a real threat aside from the careers, but it was hard to remember all of them._

_Nearing the cornucopia and the flat, hard ground around it, the boys drew closer together. Barra was still in the lead, but Fallon and Lux moved in from the sides; it had been safer to find their own paths. When their feet hit the solid ground, each sighed in relief, even Barra who said he grew up near a marsh. _

_The inside of the cornucopia had nearly been picked clean. Soon the careers would be relying on their sponsors for food, unless they could find it somewhere in the marsh or the mountains. It was unlikely. Silk sat on an empty, upturned crate and she stood when she saw them. _

_"How's Nerissa?" Barra asked, striding into the golden horn where his district partner had been resting when they left. Her leg had been swollen and hot to the touch from the cut in the bloodbath. The kid who did it was from District 11, and they killed him quick enough after. _

_"She…she died," Silk said._

_"What?" Barra made his voice low and dangerous. Fallon came closer, but Lux didn't; he glanced quickly into the horn and saw it empty. After all, they had heard a cannon. _

_"You heard the cannon. She died."_

_"You mean you fucking killed her!" _

_All the screens in the Capitol focused on the career pack then. The screens cut away from the dark skinned girl from 11 who was running for her life through the marsh that turned to quicksand wherever she stepped. The career pack splitting was nearly as exciting as the bloodbath. _

_In the control room, the gamemakers hurried to their panels and it was a hive of activity. One angle showed Lux start to slink away, treading softly, until he was behind the golden horn and out of sight of the others. _

_"I did not! She was sick, and she died, you dick head!" Silk shouted back. _

_"Like I believe that," Barra snapped. He advanced and Silk retreated but she had nowhere to go with the horn behind her. Her eyes darted to the mace she'd left by the crate. _

_One camera showed a close up of Silk's face as she tensed, and then feinted left and ran right. In the control room and the Capitol alike, the watchers held their breath as she got past the boy from District 4, and gasped when she did not quite get past Fallon. It was reflexes more than anything else that made him grab for her. He caught the collar of her shirt and swung her, hard, against the cornucopia. _

_The fabric tore in his hand and Silk reeled against the metal, trying to steady herself. Before she could, Barra had both his hands on her shoulders and his face was close to hers. _

_"You're a liar," he spat. "You killed her. She was _my_ district partner to kill."_

_"I never!" Silk's voice, which had been so sexy and seductive in her interview, cracked under the strain. She looked to the other boy. "Fallon, you know I wouldn't do that, I even tried to help your partner, I did, when she fell."_

_Fallon had been unsure what to do before now, but her words crystalized something he had been thinking about constantly. "No you didn't."_

_"I did, I did, I tried to pull her out before you got there!" _

_Barra shook her angrily. "You probably pushed her in, what do you reckon, Fallon?"_

_"Did you?" he snarled, recalling the smell of burning flesh and the hiss the acid made, barely heard over Cyra's screams._

_"No, I didn't, I swear!"_

_"I don't believe you."_

_The Capitol audience was riveted, leaning forwards in their seats, or pausing with drinks in hands as the girl from District 1 with the long, blond hair, was shoved roughly to the ground. When she tried to get up, Barra backhanded her across the face and she spat bloody saliva at him. He hit her again, and this time she let her broken tooth slide out of her mouth and onto the ground next to her. _

_"What should we do?" Barra asked. _

_"Kill her," Fallon said, as if it were obvious. _

_"We're allies," Silk cried._

_"Shut the fuck up!" Barra's voice was frenzied and he accompanied it with another swing and this time Silk was knocked flat onto her back, stunned. "Could Nerissa even fight back?"_

_"I told you-"_

_"You're a fucking liar," Barra growled. _

_Silk was quiet for a moment, her chest heaving. Barra waited for her response. It wasn't for nothing that Silk had been selected to volunteer for the games. She had trained as much as the boys had. While Barra had been talking, she worked the knife out from the sheath at her waist. _

_The hard ground around the cornucopia helped her to push off and Silk nearly gained her feet. Unbalanced, she tried to run but Barra knocked her flat again, and the blow to her stomach took away her breath. Silk gasped desperately._

_"I'm going to teach you a lesson, fucking bitch."_

_Barra knelt down and forced her legs apart with his hands. That was when Silk started to fight again. She screamed and cursed and tried to get up but Barra leant forward and put all his weight on her shoulders. _

_"You can't, you can't." Silk's voice cracked, so the last word came out a choked sob. Barra put his face close to hers and she tried to turn away from him, hair tangling around her head. His expression said that he certainly could. _

_"You going to help me?" he called to Fallon. _

_For a moment Fallon hesitated. He took a half step forward and stopped. Silk was sobbing now. "Please, don't, please!" When he heard that, his face set into a scowl that was just as frightening as Barra's leer because he remembered when another girl pleaded for mercy and Silk just kept cutting. He strode forward and knelt down, grabbing Silk's hands and forcing them over her head. He held them down so she couldn't scratch or move or fight._

_"God, please, don't do this…" Silk sobbed as Barra reached forward and ripped the rest of her shirt until her bra was visible. He cursed as he fumbled around for the clip which was underneath her and when he got it off he laughed harshly. _

_"What do you think, new token?" _

_Fallon even laughed and he leant down harder on her wrists until she cried out. He hadn't ever felt like hurting someone this much before. It didn't even bother him now and he thought that was strange._

_Silk's tears ran down her face and tangled in her hair as Barra put both hands on her breasts and squeezed them. They didn't even fill his hands; if she'd won, she would have been given implants before her mentor could even be consulted. Barra dug his nails cruelly into her nipples before he shuffled back on his knees to undo the zip on her pants. _

_Kicking wildly, Silk screamed for someone, anyone, to help. It was a futile hope when the only person who could tackle Barra was helping to hold her down. _

_"Fuck," Barra grunted, when Silk got one of her legs around enough to kick him in the stomach. He backhanded her again and wrestled her legs down until he could kneel on them, ignoring her cry of pain. He struggled to pull her pants down; the same light brown as the others wore, and then hooked his fingers in the waistband of her underwear. _

_"No, no, god, please, you can't do this, the audience, they'll…" Silk cut off her words in a sharp scream as Barra pushed her pants down to her ankles and forced her legs apart again so he could kneel in between. He undid his own trousers and pulled them down, and his underwear, as far as he could. _

_Silk's legs were hampered by her trousers around her ankles, and with her thick boots on, she couldn't shake them off. Still, she kicked and arched her back as much as she could until Fallon's hands tightened on her wrists and he started to twist them. She cried out in sharp pain again and stopped. When Barra reached forward and put one hand on her breast again and squeezed, hard, she only whimpered. His other hand reached down between her legs and he fumbled around until he slid one finger up her. He let his nail rake her on the way out. _

_"Fucking dry!" he spat, "Only thing in this place." He was right; even their hair was all limp and slicked to their foreheads from the sweat. Silk's blonde hair looked brown where it was wet and Fallon's looked nearly black. Sweat covered their skin too. _

_Silk whimpered again. "Please, please, just kill me!"_

_"You brought this on yourself," Barra grunted. "We were all meant to be allies."_

_"So just kill me!"_

_Barra looked deliberately down into Silk's eyes and his lips curved into a nasty smile. "Not yet."_

_Barra lined up over the girl, and the cameras made sure to cover them from all angles; Silk's tear stricken face, Fallon's frown and the lust he couldn't quite hide, and Barr's leer. In the control room, Crane's eyes were riveted to the screen. "Make sure we get a visual on the point of entry," he said. Something like this happened every few years, and the usual perpetrators were the career pack. Crane eyed the screen, already feeling the ratings rise. He nodded approvingly as the camera angle closed in. _

_Fallon shifted slightly; his knees were getting sore on the hard ground. He watched with helpless fascination because he was only one time away from being a virgin. He didn't remember much of his first time anyway; he and Cyra swiped a bottle of something that burnt from the bar on the train to the Capitol and had two firsts in one night. _

_Silk choked on her sobs because she had given up begging. She screwed up her eyes and tensed her body. _

_"You should relax," Barra laughed harshly. "I'm better than those fucking pretty boys from your district." _

_Nobody would have guessed, after watching her interview and her performance in the games, that Silk was a virgin. _

_It took Barra a few tries to line himself up. He lost some of his bravado and muttered a string of curses before he supported himself on one arm and reached his other between Silk's legs to help himself in. He had to spread her apart with his fingers before he got it right. _

_"Fucking tight," he gasped as he thrust into her. Silk screamed and her hands clenched into fists. She tried to arch her back but all she could do was try to kick, and even that had no impact. Instead she just choked on her sobs and kept her eyes closed so she didn't have to see Barra's face. _

_Fallon looked away at last. He was hard too, but at the same time he felt his stomach churning. Still, he didn't let go of Silk, not when it was so easy to recall the smell of acid-burnt flesh and Cyra's frantic scream that didn't stop. He wouldn't have expected it, but Silk's screams sounded a lot like Cyra's, and Irri's too. Maybe it should have made him help her, but it had the opposite effect. _

_Instead of looking down at Silk's face, Fallon glanced around the horn. _

_"Shit," he exclaimed, "Lux's gone." _

_Neither of them had noticed the boy from District 1 slink away while his district partner provided him with a distraction. _

_"Fuck, Lux," Barra panted, "the stupid prick."_

_His breaths came quicker and quicker, and Silk whimpered at every brutal thrust. Barra was too young for it to last long, and when he came, he cuffed Silk around the face again. As he staggered upright, he kicked her ribs. _

_"Your go," he panted. Silk just kept sobbing. _

_Fallon stayed still. He could feel how aroused he was, but at the same time he looked away nervously. "My mentors said not to go too far."_

_"Suit yourself. Kill her if you won't fuck her." _

_"Fine." Fallon got to his feet and looked down at Silk with all her white skin on display. It was already bruising and there was blood all over her lips and chin. He reached down to haul her upright. _

_"God, at least make it interesting," Barra said, doing up his fly. _

_Fallon shrugged and reached for his mace instead of breaking her neck quickly. When he swung it, half of Silk's face came off on the blunted spikes. He did it twice more before the canon fired._

* * *

For a moment, Finnick's face above him is Barra's. It's even easier to imagine when they share the same bronze hair and tan. Not the eyes though, and Fallon tries to focus on that.

"Go on, get him ready for me," Crane says. He reclines on his pillows because he's got all night. Victors come at a discounted price for the head gamemaker, especially two of the victors he created. As a gamemaker, he likes to watch. He likes to control.

Fallon takes a deep breath as Finnick slides off him. He lies still on his back for a moment, because he's afraid that if he gets up he will run for the door.

"Get up, hands and knees," Finnick commands, his voice a contrast to just before when he whispered gently.

Fallon does as he's told and is glad he isn't facing Crane; he has to grit his teeth when Finnick's hands trace a pattern from his shoulders down his back. He shivers though, and Crane sees.

"If you don't like it," Crane says silkily, "fight it."

Fallon is still trying to work out if Crane is serious, his brow furrowed, when Finnick leans down with lips close by his ear again. His breath is hot and his voice is the merest whisper. Fallon is sure he hears it this time though.

"You have to let me win."


	13. Chapter 13

Outside the heavy wooden door, a young avox pauses. He can't hear anything from inside the room, but he knows too well what will be going on. Unconsciously, he touches the scar on his throat as he does when nervous. He touches the scar a lot.

Nobody ever asked, but he used to be able to sing before his vocal cords were burnt with a hot knife. He didn't sing beautifully; he just sang the traditional songs of his district to soothe his younger brothers and sisters to sleep.

All that ended when his younger brother was reaped and in the arena, went down on his knees by the body of his district partner and cursed the Capitol. Several days later, a freak lightning bolt killed the younger brother. It was the same day he was collected from District 7 and taken to the stark white operating room in the Capitol.

* * *

Throwing Finnick off him, Fallon doesn't follow up on his advantage. Instead, he sets his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt and waits that half-second that lets Finnick get back to his knees and tackle him. He can't believe this is where winning and ten years training has taken him. Right then, Fallon knows exactly why Dirk never mentioned what it was like to be a victor. There's a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and it's only getting worse.

Fallon is going against his every instinct. Before he volunteered for the games, he trained six days a week, for ten years. He has few clear memories of his life before moving to the career academy with his uncle. When he thinks of his childhood, mostly it's Dirk yelling to try harder, hitting him if he false starts off the mock-up tribute plate.

Soon, Fallon's nose is bleeding and he can feel the blood trickling down the back of his throat as well as down his face. Finnick's lip starts bleeding again and both of them have blood smeared over their faces. Fallon keeps swallowing because he doesn't dare to spit.

Crane's bed sinks under their knees as they struggle, making it hard to work up any sort of force. Perhaps that's a good thing. Reclining against his multitude of red silk pillows, Crane crooks his finger and Fallon's knows instinctively that the small gesture is more dangerous than the dragon's echoing roar. He braces himself.

For just a moment, Finnick makes eye contact with him, then slams his fist in under Fallon's ribs. Fallon desperately tries to breathe while Finnick forces him down on his stomach. By the time he's got his breath back, he knows the mock fight is finished and he's glad his face his forced down against the silk sheets, turned away from Crane. He'd grit his teeth again, but breathing through his nose is too painful.

Finnick half kneels, half lies down, draping his body along Fallon's. He leans most of his weight down on Fallon's back, in case he tries to get up. Finnick doubts it though; he can feel the other man, rigid in place.

Running his hand down Fallon's back and over the swell of his buttocks, Finnick can feel his muscles are tensed. He didn't listen to his advice about relaxing, or maybe he can't. Finnick turns to smirk at Crane, but inside he's thinking that Fallon's handling this just as badly as he did, the first time.

It was with Gloss from District 1. President Snow hired them for his granddaughter for her birthday. She'd asked for Cashmere, but instead her grandfather hired the two most attractive male victors in the hope of changing her mind. It didn't. When Gloss reached for the lube in his pocket, the young woman just shook her head. Finnick had to see a doctor the next day. At least it meant for a week he was only sold to women.

Now Finnick takes the lube Crane offers and knows he's not going to be able to use that brand again without thinking of this. He coats his fingers and feels Fallon shaking underneath him. He has to put his hands between his thighs and eases his legs apart a little. By the sound of Fallon's breathing, he thinks he's biting down on his hand already.

"You're going to love this," Finnick purrs in voice it's taken him two years to cultivate.

"Go on," Crane urges. For the first time in the night, his voice is a little rough around the edges.

Finnick obliges. He supports himself, leaning on Fallon's back, and he can feel how the other man shakes at those simple words. Finnick knows he's trying his best. He rests his hand on Fallon's arse. Adjusting his position, he slides his leg quickly between Fallon's, trying to surprise him into relaxing for a moment, and then pushes his finger in. They both have to grit their teeth.

"You got to relax, baby," Finnick says. He plays up his distinctive, district drawl. He knows it's meant to do anything but relax, but he hopes Fallon might take the words to heart. If he does, it's impossible to tell when Finnick forces his finger deeper and adds another. Fallon trembles.

At three fingers, Fallon can't keep himself quiet; he whimpers and Finnick tries to block out the sound as he thrusts his fingers in further, twisting them. He scissors his fingers and hates that he knows to do it. He's nearly glad when Crane slithers down the bed and splays his hand out on Finnick back.

"I'm done watching now."

It seems to take an eternity. Fallon's skin crawls when Crane's hand traces the scars on his shoulder. They're still tender.

"Just how I wanted it," Crane murmurs softly. His hands, free of callouses, run over Fallon's body and Crane nods approvingly every now and then. He knows he made a good choice when he decided which tribute would be the victor. Fallon shivers when Crane urges him up onto his hands and knees, and he hands his head.

It hurts when Crane pushes into him, a deep pain that radiates outward. Still, it's not like it's the worst he's felt. Dirk used to hit him, hard, when he didn't beat his best times in a sprint, or if his spear didn't quite hit the center of the target. But Dirk never enjoyed it, at least, Fallon thinks so. What hurts most is the sense that it is _wrong_.

Fallon tenses all his muscles and desperately tries to keep still. It only makes it worse for, but he has to try. The knowledge that he could easily throw Crane off and put his hands around the man's fragile throat does not make it easier.

He knows he shouldn't, but Fallon can't help but cry quietly. He keeps his hands twisted in the sheets too, though he wishes he could put them over his ears to block out Crane's moans of pleasure, quickly increasing in frequency.

Each time Crane thrusts in, supporting himself with his hands on Fallon's hips, Fallon grits his teeth, even though it causes pain to shoot through his possibly broken nose. He can't see what Finnick's doing, but when Crane's little cries take on a higher intensity, he knows Finnick isn't just relaxing either.

When Crane comes, he digs his fingernails into Fallon's skin but he hardly notices it. As Crane rolls off, he stays where he is for a moment, taking deep, shuddering breaths. Crane pulls off the condom and tosses it on the floor; someone else will clean up after him.

"Well, how about a bath now?" Crane suggests languidly.

Sitting up slowly, Fallon tries to hide his horror. He swallows thickly.

"Sorry, sir," Finnick says, sounding for the first time a little hesitant, "he can't, not with a broken nose."

Crane blinks, "Excuse me?"

"You can't take a bath with a broken nose like that. The hot water and the steam make it bleed even more. It'd be dangerous for Fallon," Finnick says quickly, with a glance at his fellow victor. Fallon tries to nod convincingly; he has no idea if it's true.

"Fine then," Crane says silkily. When he smiles, his eyes remain firm and unwrinkled. "We'll have to do that another time."

"Of course, sir," Finnick says. He switches to his characteristic drawl, "We'd like that, very much."

Crane chuckles darkly and raises his eyebrows; he knows how the victors operate. He's happy to play along with the game; it's his, after all. Leaning forwards, he runs one finger down the length of Fallon's nose. The younger man cringes, unable to hide it. Crane ignores him and kisses him, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to cause pain.

"I'm sure I'll see you soon," Crane smiles. "You may go now. See yourselves out."

The bed heaves as Fallon crawls off. His shoulders are tensed, showing he's barely holding it together. Finnick follows more naturally and remembers to pick up their scattered clothes. He shuts the heavy door and looks around for Fallon.

Seeing the bathroom door ajar, Finnick enters and sighs softly. Fallon kneels by the porcelain toilet, arms wrapped around the bowl and chin resting on the rim. His shoulders shake with sobs that only stop when he retches. There's nothing more to bring up though.

Closing the door, Finnick dumps Fallon's clothes in a pile next to him. The other man doesn't even look up. Finnick sighs again and begins to get dressed. His thoughts turn to the shower in his room, and the setting that is so fierce it takes off two layers of skin.

When he's dressed, he wets one of the white face washers, as soft and silk, and tosses it down by Fallon's knees.

"Thanks," he mutters, wiping his mouth, then his sweaty forehead. Finnick thrusts his hands into his pockets and nods. "No, really, thanks. I know you think I don't understand, but I can see that I could have fucked it up worse, if you didn't help me."

"It's okay," Finnick says softly, "first time like that's always tricky. Now go on, get dressed, we're finished here."

Slowly, they walk back down the corridor and pass the avox waiting by the door to let them out. The doors close with a soft click and Fallon lifts his head a little, ignoring the trickle of blood that slides down his face again. The dark car waits in the driveway, and he wonders if the driver has waited there the whole time.

The ride back is quiet. Fallon stares out the window again, and he knows he should be relieved, but Crane's promise to see him again eats away at him.

"You've got to get your nose seen to," Finnick says.

"Sorry?"

"Your broken nose, you've got to get that fixed, your prep team can do it," Finnick repeats.

"Do I have to?" Fallon asks with a shiver.

"Don't you like your preps? They're not too bad usually," Finnick says.

"They're…" Fallon hesitates, then shakes his head, "no, I don't like them, well, one of them."

Finnick detects the note of fear that creeps into Fallon's voice. "What do they do?"

"She makes me…" Fallon trails off, still staring out the window. Fresh tears trickle down his face, stinging his nose again.

"I can guess," Finnick says. "You know that's illegal? They've got to pay for you. If anyone found out about that, she'd probably be imprisoned."

"But, she said I couldn't tell, or…"

Finnick sighs again. "Look, I'll see what I can do. Maybe start a rumor, even that would be enough to get her questioned."

Fallon turns around at last, shifting in his seat. "Really? Thank you, Finnick."

Shrugging, Finnick says, "We're both victors, got to work together sometimes. Now, you don't want to go back to your uncle in that state, do you? You'll just worry him. Come back to my floor and we'll wake up my preps. One of them, Portia, she's really decent. Came from District 8 originally. She'll fix up your nose and check you out."

Fallon hesitates for a moment. "Yeah, I don't want to worry Dirk," he says. For the first time in several days, he smiles tentatively. "Thanks Finnick."

**Author's note: We've reached the conclusion at last. I hope you've all enjoyed my first attempt at writing smut. I've certainly had a blast and enjoyed challenging myself. If you want more Estoma smut, check out 'Oysters' and keep your eyes peeled, because Fallon is sure to make a few more appearances in my work. I'm releasing a few sneaky details about his fate post Mockingjay, so keep an eye out for any new stories coming up. Thank you all. **

**And as always, thanks to sohypothetically for being my excellent, and very patient beta. **


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